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PARNASSUS 






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EDITED BY 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 



"Oh, how fair fruit may you to mortal man 
From Wisdom's garden give!" — Gascoignb* 



,^^ti- 






/^^ 




JAN 22 1897 *] 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

Cfjc iaiberiStlfc IBrciSEi, Camftrtlrgc 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 

KALPH WALDO EMERSON, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



^ Trangftr 



Jo 



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PREFACE. 



This volume took its origin from an old habit of copying any 
poem or lines that interested me into a blank hodli. In many 
years, my selections filled the volume, and required another ; and 
still the convenience of commanding all my favorites in one 
album, instead of searching my own and other libraries for a 
desired song or verse, and the belief that what charmed me proba- 
bly might charm others, suggested the printing of my enlarged 
selection. I know the convenience and merits of the existing 
anthologies, and the necessity of printing in every collection many 
masterpieces which all English-speaking men have agreed in ad- 
miring. Each has its merits ; but I have found that the best of 
these collections do not contain certain gems of pure lustre, 
whilst they admit many of questionable claim. The voluminous 
octavos of Anderson and Chalmers have the same fault of too 
much mass and too little genius ; and even the more select 
"Golden Treasury " of Mr. Palgrave omits too much that I can- 
not spare. I am aware that no two readers would make the same 
selection. Of course, I shall gladly hail with the public a better 
collection than mine. 

Poetry teaches the enormous force of a few words, and, in pro- 
portion to the inspiration, checks loquacity. It requires that 
splendor of expression which carries with it the proof of great 
thoughts. Great thoughts insure musical expressions. Every 
word should be the right word. The poets are they who see that 



IV 



PKEFACE. 



spiritual is greater than any material force, that thoughts rule the 
world. The great poets are judged by the frame of mind they 
induce ; and to them, of all men, the severest criticism is due. 

Some poems I have inserted for their historical importance ; 
some, for their weight of sense ; some, for single couplets or lines, 
perhaps even for a word ; some, for magic of style ; and I have 
admitted verses, which, in their structure, betray a defect of poetic 
ear, but have a wealth of truth which ought to have created 
melody. I know the peril of didactics to kill poetry, and that 
Wordsworth runs fearful risks to save his mental experiences. 
Some poems are external, like Moore's, and have only a superficial 
melody : others, like Chaucer's, have such internal music as to 
forgive a roughness to the modern ear, which, in the mouth of the 
bard, his contemporaries probably did not detect. To Chaucer 
may be well applied the word of Heraclitus, that "Harmony la- 
tent is of greater value than that which is patent." 

There are two classes of poets, — the poets by education and 
practice, these we respect ; and poets by nature, these we 
love. Pope is the best type of the one class : he had all the 
advantage that taste and wit could give him, but never rose to 
grandeur or to pathos. Milton had all its advantages, but was 
also poet born. Chaucer, Shakspeare, Jonson (despite all the 
pedantic lumber he dragged with him), Herbert, Herrick, Collins, 
Burns, — of the other. Then there are poets who rose slowl}', 
and wrote badly, and had yet a true calling, and, after a hundred 
failures, arrived at pure power ; as Wordsworth, encumbered for 
years with childish whims, but at last, by his religious insight, 
lifted to genius. 

Scott was a man of genius, but onlj- an accomplished rhymer 
(poet on the same terms as the Norse bards and minstrels) , admir- 
able chronicler, and master of the ballad, but never crossing the 
threshold of the epic, where Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and 
Milton dwell. 



PREFACE. y 

The task of selection is easiest in poetry. What a signal con- 
venience is fame ! Do we read all authors to grope our way to 
the best ? No ; but the world selects for us the best, and we select 
from these our best. 

Chaucer fulfils the part of the poet, possesses the advantage of 
being the most cultivated man of his time, and so speaks always 
sovereignly and cheerfully. Often the poetic nature, being too 
susceptible, is over-acted on by others. The religious sentiment 
teaching the immensity of every moment, the indifference of mag- 
nitude, the present is all, the soul is God; — this lesson is 
great and greatest. Yet this, also, has limits for humanity. One 
must not seek to dwell in ethereal contemplation : so should the 
man decline into a monk, and stop short of his possible enlarge- 
ment. The intellect is cheerful. 

Chaucer's antiquity ought not to take him out of the hands of 
intelligent readers. No lover of poetry can spare him, or should 
grudge the short study required to command the archaisms of his 
English, and the skill to read the melody of his verse. His matter 
is excellent, his story told with vivacity, and with equal skill in 
the pathos and in triumph. I think he has lines of more force 
than any English writer, except Shakspeare. If delivered by an 
experienced reader, the verses will be found musical as well as 
wise, and fertile in invention. He is always strong, facile, and 
pertinent, and with what vivacity of style through all the range 
of his pictures, comic or tragic ! He knows the language of joy 
and of despair. 

Of Shakspeare what can we say, but that he is and remains an 
exceptional mind in the world ; that a universal poetry began and 
ended with him ; and that mankind have required the three hun- 
dred and ten years since his birth to familiarize themselves with 
his supreme genius? I should like to have the Academy of 
Letters propose a prize for an essay on Shakspeare's poem, " Xe? 



y^ PREFACE. 

the bird of loudest lay" and the " Threnos " with which it closes ; 
the aim of the essay being to explain, by a historical research into 
the poetic myths and tendencies of the age in which it was writ- 
ten, the frame and allusions of the poem. I have not seen Ches- 
ter's ^''Love's Martyr," and "the Additional Poems" (1601), in 
which it appeared. Perhaps that book will suggest all the expla- 
nation this poem requires. To unassisted readers, it would appear 
to be a lament on the death of a poet, and of his poetic mistress. 
But the poem is so quaint, and charming in diction, tone, and 
allusions, and in its perfect metre and harmony, that I would 
gladly have the fullest illustration yet attainable. I consider this 
piece a good example of the rule, that there is a poetr}^ for bards 
proper, as well as a poetry for the world of readers. This poem, 
if published for the first time, and without a known author's name, 
would find no general reception. Only the poets would save it. 

To the modern reader, Ben Jonson's pla^s have lost their old 
attraction ; but his occasional poems are full of heroic thought, and 
his songs are among the best in the language. His life interests 
us from the wonderful circle of companions with whom he lived, — 
with Camden, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Bacon, Chapman, 
Herbert, Herrick, Cowley, Suckling, Drayton, Donne, Carew, Sel- 
den, — and by whom he was honored. Cowley tells us, "I must 
not forget Ben's reading : it was delicious : never was poetry mar- 
ried to more exquisite music : " and the Duchess of Newcastle 
relates, that her husband, himself a good reader, said he " never 
heard any man read well but Ben Jonson." 

Spence reports, that Pope said to him, " Crashaw is a worse 
sort of Cowley: Herbert is lower than Crashaw," — an opinion 
which no reader of their books at this time will justif3\ Crashaw, 
if he be the translator of the ' Sospetto d'Herode,' has written 
masterly verses never learned from Cowley, some of which I have 
transcribed ; and Herbert is the psalmist dear to all who love 



PREFACE. vii 

religious pootiy with exquisite refinement of thought. So much 
piety was never married to so much wit. Herbert identifies, him- 
self with Jewish genius, as Michael Angelo did when carving or 
painting prophets and patriarchs, not merely old men in robes 
and beards, but with the sanctity and the character of the Penta- 
teuch and the prophecy conspicuous in them. His wit and his 
piety are genume, and are sure to make a lifelong friend of a good 
reader. 

Herrick is the 13'ric poet, ostentatiously choosing petty subjects, 
petty names for each piece, and disposing of his theme in a few 
lines, or in a couplet ; is never dull, and is the master of miniature 
painting. On graver themes, in his " Sacred Numbers," he is 
equally successful. 

Milton's " Paradise Lost " goes so surelj^ with the Bible on to 
every book-shelf, that I have not cited a line ; but I could not 
resist the insertion of the " Comus," and the " Lycidas," which 
are made of pure poetry, and have contented myself with extracts 
from the grander scenes of " Samson Agonistes." 

The public sentiment of the reading world was long divided on 
the merits of Wordsworth. His early poems were written on a 
false theory of poetry ; and the critics denounced them as childish. 
He persisted long to write after his own whim ; and, though he 
arrived at unexpected power, his readers were never safe from a 
childish return upon himself and an unskilful putting-forward of 
it. How different from the absolute concealment of Shakspeare 
in all his miraculous dramas, and even in his love-poems, in 
which, of course, the lover must be perpetually present, but always 
by thought, and never by his buttons or pitifulness ! Montaigne 
is delightful in his egotism. B^Ton is always egotistic, but inter- 
esting thereby, through the taste and genius of his confession or 
his defiance. 

Wordsworth has the merit of just moral perception, but not that 



y^^^ PREFACE. 

of deft poetic execution. How would Milton curl his lip at sucK 
slipshod newspaper style ! Many of his poems, as, for example, 
"The R3'lstone Doe," might be all improvised: nothing of Mil- 
ton, nothing of Marvell, of Herbert, of Dryden, could be. These 
are verses such as many country gentlemen could write ; but few 
would think of claiming the poet's laurel on their merit. Pindar, 
Dante, Shakspeare, whilst they have the just and open soul, have 
also the e3'e to see the dimmest star, the serratm-es of every leaf, 
the test objects of the microscope, and then the tongue to utter 
the same things in words that engrave them on the ears of all 
mankind. 

The poet demands all gifts, and not one or two only. Like the 
electric rod, he must reach from a point nearer to the sky than all 
surrounding objects, down to the earth, and into the wet soil, or 
neither is of use. The poet must not only converse with pure 
thought, but he must demonstrate it almost to the senses. His 
words must be pictures : his verses must be spheres and cubes, to 
be seen and handled. His fable must be a good storj', and its 
meaning must hold as pure truth. In the debates on the Copyright 
Bill, in the English parliament, Mr. Sergeant Wakley, the coroner, 
quoted Wordsworth's poetry in derision, and asked the roaring 
House of Commons, " what that meant, and whether a man should 
have a public reward for writing such stuff?" — Homer, Horace, 
Milton, and Chaucer would defy the coroner. Whilst they have 
wisdom to the wise, he would see that to the external they have 
external meaning. Coleridge rightly said that " poetrj^ must first 
be good sense, as a palace might well be magnificent, but first it 
must be a house." Wordsworth is open to ridicule of this kind ; 
and j-et, though satisfied if he can suggest to a sympathetic mind 
his own mood, and though setting a private and exaggerated value 
on his compositions, and taking the public to task for not admiring 
his poetry, he is really a master of the English language ; and his 



PEEFACE. ix 

best poems evince a power of diction that is no more rivalled by 
his contemporaries than is his poetic insight. But his capital 
merit is, that he has done more for the sanity of his generation 
than any other writer. 

" Laodamia" is almost entitled to that eminence in his literary 
performance which Landor gave it when he said, that "Words- 
worth had now written a poem which might be fitly read in Elj'sium, 
and the gods and heroes might gather round to listen." I count 
that and the " Ode on Immortality " as the best. 

Wordsworth has a religious value for his thoughts ; but his 
inspirations are casual and insufficient, and he persists in writing 
after they are gone. No great poet needs so much a severely 
critical selection of the noble numbers from the puerile into which 
he often falls. Leigh Hunt said of him, that "he was a fine 
lettuce with too man}- outer leaves." 

Byron's rare talent is conspicuously partial. He has not sweet- 
ness, nor solid knowledge, nor lofty aim. He had a rare skill for 
rhythm, unmatched facility of expression, a firm, ductile thread of 
gold. His rh;yTnes do not suggest any restraint, but the utmost 
freedom, as the rules of the dance do not fetter the good dancer, 
but exhibit his natural grace. In his isolation he is starved for a 
purpose ; and finding no material except of romance, — first, of 
corsairs, and Oriental robbers and harems, and, lastly, of satire, — 
he revenges himself on society for its supposed distrust of him, by 
cursing it, and throwing himself on the side of its destro3^ers. 
His life was wasted ; and its only result was this brilliant gift of 
song with which he soothed his chosen exile. I do not know that 
it can retain for another generation the charm it had for his cori* 
temporaries ; but the security with which he pours these perfectly 
modulated verses to any extent, without any sacrifice of sense for 
the sake of metre, surprises the reader. 



J. PREFACE. 

Tennj'son has incomparable felicity in all poetic forms, surpass- 
ing in melody also, and is a brave, thoughtful Englishman, un- 
matched in rhythmic power and variety. The thoroughness with 
which the fable has been thought out, as in the account of the 
supreme influence of Arthur on his knights, is onl}- one of his tri- 
umphs. The passion of love in his " Maud" found a new cele- 
bration, which woke delight wherever the English language is 
known ; the ' ' Dirge of Wellington " was a more magnificent 
monument than any or all of the histories that record that com- 
mander's life. Then the variety of his poems discloses the wealth 
and the health of his mind. Nay, some of his words are poems. 

The selections from American writers are necessarily confined 
to the present century ; but some of them have secured a wide 
fame. Some of them are recent, and have 3'et to earn their lau- 
rels. I have inserted onty one of the remarkable poems of For- 
ceythe Willson, a j^oung Wisconsin poet of extraordinar}- promise, 
who died very soon after this was written. The poems of a lady 
who contents herself with the initials H. H. in her book published 
in Boston (1874) have rare merit of thought and expression, 
and will reward the reader for the careful attention Avhich thc}^ 
require. The poem of " Sir Pavon and Saint Pavon," by another 
hand, has a dangerous freedom of style, but carries in it rare 
power and pathos. 

The imagination wakened brings its own language, and that is 
always musical. It may or may not have rhyme or a fixed metre ; 
but it will alwaj's have its special music or tone. Whatever lan- 
guage the bard uses, the secret of tone is at the heart of the poem. 
Every great master is such b}^ this power, — Chaucer and Shak- 
speare and Raleigh and Milton and Collins and Burns and 
BjTon and Tennyson and Wolfe. The true inspiration always 
brings it. Perhaps it cannot be analyzed ; but we all jdeld to it. 
It is the life of the good ballads ; it is in the German hymns 



PREFACE. ^j 

which Wesley translated ; it is in the " Marseillaise " of Rouget de 
Lisle ; it gave their value to the chants of the old Romish and 
of the English Church ; and it is the only account we can give of 
their wonderful power on the people. Poems may please by their 
talent and ingenuity ; but, when they charm us, it is because they 
have this quality, for this is the union of nature with thought. 

R. W. E. 



CONTENTS 



NATURE. 
Land. — Sea. — Sky. 

Argument of his Book Herrick . 

At Sea J. T. Trowbridge 

Barberry-Bush, The Jones Very . 

Bird, The . .■ W. AiUngham . 

Birds of Killiiigworth, The Longfellow • 

Blossoms, To Herrick 

Bothie of Tober na Vuolich, From the . . . Clough . 

Boy Poet, The Wordsworth 

Breeding Lark Arthur Boar . 

Cave of Staffa Wordsioorth 

Cloud, The Shelley . 

Coral Grove, The J. G. Percival . 

Coriuna's going a-Maying Herrick . 

Country Life, The Herrick 

Dawn Shakspeare . 

Daffodills, To Herrick . 

Daffodils Wordsworth . 

Death of the Flowers, The Bryant 

Death of the Old Year, The Tennyson 

Diamond, The J. J. O. Wilkinson 

Dover Cliffs Shakspeare . 

Drop of Dew, A A. Marvell 

Eagle, The Tennyson 

. Earth-Spirit, The Channing . 

Evening, Ode to Collins . 

Evening Star, To the Wordsworth 

First of May Wordsworth . 

Flight of the Wild Geese Channing . 

Flowers Shakspeare . 

Flowers at Cave of Staffa Wordsworth 

Fox and Cock Chaucer 

Fringed Gentian, To the Bryant 

Garden, The Marvell . 

Grasshopper, The Richard Lovelace 

Haze H. D. Thoreau 

Herb Rosemary, To the H. K. White . 

Hillside Cot, The Channinq 

Hope Campbell . 

Joanna, To Wordsioorth 

II Penseroso . MUtnii 



Lachin y Gair Byron . 

L'Allegro Milton 

Landscape Tennyson 

Liberty Wordsworth 

Lost in the Snow Thomson 

Mav Ben Jonson 

Milky Way, The Chaucer . 

Mist Thoreau . 

Moonlighj; Shakspeare 

Morning Shakspeare 

Morning in the Mountains Wordsworth . 

xili 



Page. 

3 
48 
32 
36 
11 
33 
20 
27 
36 
42 
46 
39 
10 
15 

5 
33 
33 
29 
24 
34 

8 
47 
38 
27 
43 
44 

9 
37 
29 
42 
16 
30 
25 
16 
48 
32 

7 
45 
17 
18 



26 

4 

9 
ST' 
23 

9 
45 
48 
43 

6 

8 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



Mountain, The . . . . 

Nature 

Nature 

Niglit and Death 

NiL'ht 

Night 

Nightingale, The . . . , 
Nightingale .... 
Nightingale, The . . . . 
Nightingale's Death-Song, The 
Nightingale's Song, The 

Ocean 

Ocean 

Osniunda Regalis, The . 
Out anil Inward Bound 
Pass of Kirkstone, The . 
Primrose, The . . . . 
Kainbow, To the 
Ilaiubow, The . . . . 
Rivulet, The .... 
Sea 



Charming . 

Ben Jonson . 

James Beattie . 

J. Blanco White 

Beattie 

Shahspeare . 

Keats 

Thomson 

B. Barnefield . 

Hemans 

T. H. Bayly . 

Charles Sprague 

Pollok 

Wordsworth . 

Shakspeare 

Wordsivorth . 

Herrick 

Campbell 

Byron 

Bryant . 



Sea-Shell, Inscription on a . 

Sea Song 

Sea Song 

September, 1819 

Skating 

-Skylark, To a 

Skylark, To the 

Smoke 

Snow 

Solitude 

Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda 

Song of the Stars 

Sonnet : " Full many a glorious morning ' 

Storm, The 

Sunflower, The 

Sunset 

Swimming 

Tacking Ship oflE Shore . . . . 

Tintern Abbey 

Trees . ." 

Waterfowl, To a 

Winter : a Dirge 

Winter Night, A 

Yew- Trees ..... . . 



Landor . 
Channing . 
A. Cunningham 
Wordsworth 
Wordsworth . 
Shelley 
Wordsworth . 
Thoreau . 
Wordsworth . 
Byron 
Marvell . 
Bryant 
Shakspeare . 
Byron 
W. Blake 
Byron 
Byron . 
Walter Mitchel 
Wordsivorth . 
Spenser . 
Bryant . 
Burns 
Burns . 
Wordsworth . 



6 
3 
3 

44 
3 
34 
34 
34 
35 
35 
35 
38 
38 
32 
40 
28 
32 
46 
46 
25 
39 
40 
38 
39 
34 
22 
36 
36 
47 
22 
28 
41 
44 
6 
42 
29 
42 
21 
40 
29 
30 
37 
22 
24 
31 



HUMAN LIFE. 



Home. — Woman. 



■ Love. — Friendship. — Manners. — Holy Days.— 
Holidays. 



Anathemata 

Apology for having loved before 

Ariadne 

Athulf and Ethilda 

Babe, The 

Beauty 

Bride, The 

Bride, The .... 

Charmer, My 

Child, To a .... 
Children's Hour, The . 
Common Sense 

Corinne, To 

Cotter's Saturday Night, The 

Divided 

Duchesse Blanche . 

Ecstasy, The 

Elizabeth of Bohemia . 
Freedom in Dress .... 



F. B. Sanborn 
E. Waller . 
Chaucer . 
Henry Taylor 
Sir Wm. ^ones (Trans.) 
Spenser . 
Spenser . 
Suckling 
Waller' . 
N. P. Willis 
Lonqfellow 
Shakspeare . 
Mrs. Hemans 
Burns . 
Jean Ingelow 
Chaucer- 
John Donne 
Wotton . 
Ben Jonson 



CONTENTS. 



XV 



Genevieve 

Gentility 

Girdlo, On a 

Give me the Old 

Home 

Honoria 

Hymn to the Graces 

If TIioii wert by my Side, my Love . 

I'll never love thee more .... 

Inborn Royalty 

Lady's Yes, The 

Last Farewell, The 

Lily of Nithsdale, The 

Lines on leaving Europe .... 

Love 

Love against Love 

Love at First Sight 

Lucasta, To 

Lucy 

Maud 

My Mother's Picture 

Othello's Defence 

Outgrown 

Peasant's Return, The .... 

Playmate, My 

Pilot's Daughter, The 

Poetry of Dress, The 

Portrait, The 

Qua Cursum Ventus 

Queen, The 

Rosaline 

Rose of the World, The .... 

Sentences 

She walks in Beauty 

Silvia, To 

Song : " See the Chariot at hand " . 
Song : " How near to Good is what is Fair " 
Sonnet: "How oft when thou" 
Sonnet : " Let me not to the Marriage " 
Sonnet: " So am I as the Rich " 
Sonnet: " To me Fair Friend " . 

Sundered 

Sympathy 

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie . 

Tribute, The 

True Love • 

Una and the Lion 

Venus, To 

Viola disguised, and the Duke 

Virginia 

When I do count the Clock .... 

Woman 

Wood-Fire, The 



Coleridge 
Chaucer . 
Waller . 
Messinger 
Wordsivorth . 
Coventry Patmore 
Herrtck . 
Heber 
Montrose 
Shakspeare 
E. B. Brotvning , 
Emerson . 
A. Cunningham . 
JN: p. Willis . 
Donne . 
D. A. Wasson . 
Beaumont and Fletcher 
Lovelace . 
Wordsworth . 
Tennyson . 
Cowper . 
Shakspeare 
Julia R. C. Dorr . 
William Barnes 
Whittier 
Allingham 
Herrick 
Heywood . 
Clough . 
Patmore . 
T. Lodge 
Patmore . 
Patmore 
Byron 
Herrick . 
Ben Jonson 
Ben Jonson . 
Shakspeare 
Shakspeare . 
Shakspeare 
Shakspeare . 
Sidney If. Morse 
Thoreau 
A. CunningJiam 
Coventry Patmore 
Shakspeare 
Spenser .... 
Beaumont and Fletcher 
Shakspeare . 
Chaucer . 
Shakspeare . 
Prof. Wilson (Trans.) 
E.'S.H. 



INTELLECTUAL. 



Memory. 



■ Inspiration. — Imagination. — Fancy. — Music. — Art. 
Beauty. — Moods. 



^olian Harp Allingham 

Alexander's Feast Dry den . 

Art and Nature Shakspeafe 

Cathedral Congreve 

Compliment to Queen Elizabeth .... Shaksjieare 

Comus : a Mask Milton . 

Critic, To the Tennyson . 

Cuckow and the Nightingale Chaucer 

Dsedalus Sterling . 

Dreams Scott 

Fantasy Ben Jonson 



XVI 



CONTENTS. 



Fairies 

Fame 

Flower, The 

Foresight .....•••• 

Harp, To the 

Hurts of Time 

Inspiration 

Inspiration 

Kilmeny 

King Lear 

Kubla Khan 

Loclcsley HaJl 

Memory 

Memory 

Moods 

Morning 

Muse, The 

Music, To 

Music 

Music 

Mythology 

Not Every Day Fit for Verse .... 

Ode to Himself 

Orpheus with his Lute 

Passions, The : an Ode for Music 

Phoenix and Turtle Dove 

Pleasures of Imagination 

Poet, The 

Poet, The 

Poet's Mood . . . 

Praise of Homer, The 

Prayer to Apollo 

Queen Mab 

Questionings 

Kabia 

Borneo's Presage 

Scale of Minds 

Ships at Sea 

Socrates 

Song from Gypsies' Metamorphoses 

Song of Fionnuala, The 

Sonnet: " O how much more doth " 

Sonnet: " From you have I been " . 

Sonnet on First Looking into Chapman's Homer 

Soul's Errand, The 

St. Cecilia's Day 

Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways 

Supplication, A 

Thought 

Ulysses 

Under the Portrait of Milton .... 

White Island, The 

Outline 

Writing Verses 



Warton . 

Ben Jonson . 

George Herbert 

Shakspeare . 

Drayton . 

Byron . 

Burns 

Thoreau 

James Hogg 

Shakspeare 

Coleridge . 

Tennyson 

Tennyson . 

Channing 

Sir J. Suckling 

Allingham . 

Oeorge Wither 

Mrs. Hemans 

Keats 

W. Strode . 

Coleridge . 

Herrick . 

Ben Jonson ' . 

Shakspeare . 

Collins 

Shakspeare . 

Akenside . 

C.S.T. 

Chaucer . 

Beaumont and Fletcher 

George Chapman 

Chaueer . 

Shakspeare 

F. H. Hedge . 

J. F. Clarke {Trans 

Shakspeare , 

Wordsworth 

R. B. Coffin 

Yoking 

Ben Jonson 

Moore 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare 

Keats 

Raleigh . 

Dry den . 

Wordsworth 

Cowley . 

H. H. 

Tennyson 

Dry den 

Herrick . 

Wordsworth 

Bums . 



CONTEMPLATIVE. —MORAL. —RELIGIOUS. 



Man. — ViETUE. — Honor. — Time. — Fate. — Sleep. — Deeams 
— Death. — Immoktalitt. — Hymns and Odes 

Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt 

Affliction Herbert . 

Angels, The Drummond 

An Honest Man's Fortune John Fletcher 

Before Sleep Sir T. Browne . 

Burning Babe, The Southwell 

Celinda Lord Herbert , 

Character Coleridge 

Church Porch, The Herbert 

Christmas Tennyson 

Christmas Carol, The ...,,.. Wordsworth . 



CONTENTS. xvii 



Christmas Hymn Milton 187 

Come Morir S. O. W. . . . . 166 

Confession Herbert 150 

Consolers. The S. G. W. . . . . 150 

Death's Final Conquest James Shirley . , . 167 

Dependence Cowper 182 

Destiny Chaucer .... 152 

Divine Love Wesley (Trans.) . . . 177 

Duty, Ode to Wordsworth .... 149 

Easter Herbert 192 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard . . . Gray 169 

Elixir, The Herbert .... 181 

English Ohaimel Wordsworth .... 144 

Eton College Gray 148 

Euthanasia Henry More .... 173 

Forecast Chaucer .... 153 

Forecast Bailey 153 

Good Omens Shakspeare .... 152 

Gratefulness Herbert 184 

Hamlet's SolUoquy Shakspeare .... 160 

Happy Life, The Wotton 146 

Honest Poverty Bums 147 

Honor Wordsworth .... 144 

Humility B. M. Milnes . . . 145 

Hymn to Christ, A . . . .... Donne . . . . ' 180 

Hymn to God, My God, in my Sickness . . . Bonne 188 

Hjinn : " Lord, when I quit this Earthly Stage " . Watts 185 

Hyperion: " As Heaven and Earth are Fairer " . Keats 143 

Immortality Wordsworth .... 173 

Immortal Mind, The Byron 172 

Inscription on Melrose Abbey Anonymous .... 161 

Inscription on a WaU in St. Edmund's Church, in 

Lomb.ard St., London Anonymous .... 102 

Inscription in Marble in the Parish Church of Faver- 

sham, in Agro Cantiano Anonymous .... 162 

Joy H.H. 157 

Laodamia Wordsworth . . . 162 

Life Herbert 151 

Life Mrs. Barbauld . . . 169 

Life Longfellow .... 149 

Life and Death Shakspeare .... 161 

Life and Death Shakspeare .... 161 

Litany to the Holy Spirit Herrick 186 

Love and Humility Henry More .... 176 

Man Herbert 143 

Matins Herrick 185 

Moravian Hymn John Wesley . . . 178 

My Legacy H.H. 176 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom is Byrd 154 

Karayena: Spirit of God Sir. Wm. Jones (Trans.) . 180 

New "Prince, New Pomp Southwell .... 191 

Old Man's Funeral, The Bryant 167 

Orthodoxy W. Blake .... 158 

Peace Herbert 157 

Penitence Young 180 

Pilgrimage -Sir W. Raleigh . . . 160 

Poet's Hope, A Channing . ... 153 

Praise to G<Ki Mrs. Barbauld . . . 183 

Prayers Shakspeare .... 159 

Providence Herbert 182 

Providence Cowper 182 

Ps.alm XCIII -Sir Philip Sidney . . .178 

Psalm XVIII Stemhold .... 182 

Psalm CXXXIX Sir Philip Sidney . . .178 

Pullev, The Herbert 144 

Quip. The Herbert 147 

Retreat, The Henry Vaughan . . . 173 

Revolutions Shakspeare .... 152 

Satan Richard Crashaw . . 179 

Seven Ages, The Shakspeare .... 151 

Shepherds, The I>rummond .... 196 

Shield, The S. G. W. 150 



xvm 



CONTENTS. 



Sin . 

Sing unto the Lord 
Skeptic, Tlie . 
Skull, The . 
Sleep . . . 



Sleep 

Stauzas written in the Churchyard of Richmond 

Yorkshire 

Star-Song, The 

Strangers, The 

Sun-Dial 

Thanatopsis 

That Each Thing is hurt of Itself .... 
The Spacious Firmament on High .... 

Tithonus 

To Be no More 

Touchstone, The 

Two went up into the Temple to pray 

Undertaking, The 

Virtue 

Waj'farers 

Wisdom 



Herbert 

Sir Philip Sidney 
Wordsworth 
Byron . 
Shakspeare 
Young . 



Herbert Knowles 
HerricJc . 
Jones Very 
Montgomery . 
Bryant 
Anonymous . 
Addison . 
Tennyson 
Milton 
Allingham . 
Richard Crashaw 
Donne . 
Herbert 
E.S.H. . 

Coventry Patmore 



HEROIC. 
Patriotic. — Historic, — Political. 



Abraham Lincoln 

Antony over the Dead Body of Caesar . 

Ariadne's Farewell 

Bannockbum 

Bard, The 

Battle Hymn of the Republic .... 

Battle of the Baltic 

Battle on St. Crispian's Day .... 

Bay Fight, The 

Boadicea 

Bonduca 

Bunker Hill 

Cassius 

Chicago 

Chivalry . . . . . 

Christian Militant 

Commemoration Ode 

Constancy 

Coronation 

Cromwell and King Charles 

Cumberland, The 

Defiance 

Entrance of Columbus into Barcelona . 
Epistle to a Friend to persuade him to the Wars 

Flag, The 

George Washington 

Greeting to " The George Griswold " 

Happy Warrior, The 

Henry V.'s Audience of French Ambassadors 

Heroism 

Hohenlinden 

Hotspur's Quarrel with Henry IV. 

Hotspur 

Ichabod 

Indians 

In State 

In the Fight 

Jephthah's Daughter 

John Brown of Osawatomie .... 

King Richard's Soliloquy 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, The 

Lochiel's Warning , . 

Lost Leader, The 

Loyal Woman's No, A 



Tom Taylor 
Shakspeare . 
H.H. ... 
Bums .... 
Gray .... 
Julia Ward Howe 
Campbell . 
Shakspeare . 
H. H. Brownell 
Cowper . 

Beaumont and Fletcher 
G. Mellen 
Shakspeare 
Bret Harte 
Ben Jonson 
Herrick 



Lowell 
Herbert . 
H.H. 

Marvell . 
Longfellow 
Scott . . 
G. Mellen 
Ben Jonson . 
Julia Ward Howe 



Punch 

Wordsworth . 
Shakspeare 
Coleridge {Trans.) 
Campbell . 
Shakspeare . 
Shakspeare 
Whittier 
Charles Sprague 
Forceythe Willson 
Tennyson 
Byron 

E. C. Stedman 
Shakspeare . 
Mrs. Hemans . 
Campbell 
Robert Browning 
Lucy Larcom . 



CONTENTS. 



XIX 



Maryland 

Mason and Slidell 

Master Spirit, The 

Miirat 

Never or Now 

Ode on Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Sol- 
diei-s 

Old Ironsides . 

On the Late Massacre in Piemont .... 

Port Koyal, At ^ . 

Prayer. The 

Itequieni 

lioyalty ■ 

Samson Agonistes 

Schill 

Scotland 

Song of Saul before his Last Battle .... 

Sonnet: "Alas! what hoots the long " . 

So7inet: " It is not to be thought of that " 

Speech of the Dauphin 

Sunthin in a Pastoral Line 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzer- 
land 

Vision, The 

Warden of the Cinque Ports, The .... 

Washers of the Shroud, The 

Waterloo 

Westward the Star of Empire 

What the Birds said 

Ye Mariners of England 



J. R. Randall 

Lowell . 
George Chapman 
Byron . 
O. W. Holmes 



Henry Timrod 
O. W. Holmes 
Milton . 
Whittier . 
Tennyson 
George Lunt 
D. A. Wasson 
Milton 
Wordsworth 
Bums 
Byron . 
Wordsworth 
Wordsworth 
Shakspeare 
Lowell . 

Wordsworth 
Bums . 
Longfellow 
Lowell . 
Byron 
G. Berkeley 
Whittier . 
Campbell 



PORTKAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



Addison, Portrait of Pope 

Agassiz, Fiftieth Birthday of Longfellow 

A King Robert Browning . 

Alexander Pope, Lines to David Lewis . 

Ben Jonson, Ode to Herrick . 

Black Prince, The Shakspeare 

Burial of Moses Mrs. C. F. Alexander 

Campbell, To . . . Moore 

Caliph's Encampment, The Moore . 

Cleopatra Shakspeare 

Coriolanus Shakspeare . 

Coriolanus at Antium Shakspeare 

Countess of Rutland, To the Beyi Jonson . 

Cowley's Epigram on Sir Francis Drake . . . Ben Jonson (Trans.) 

Destruction of Sennacherib, The .... Byron . 

Elegy on Mistress Elizabeth Drury .• . . . Donne 

Entrance of Bolingbroke into London . . . Shakspeare . 

Epigram Ben Jonson 

Epitaph on Shakspeare Milton . . . . 

Epitaph : " Underneath this sable hearse " . . Be7i Jonson 

Epitaph: "Underneath this stone doth lye" . . Ben Jonson . 

Execution, The Byron 

Fare Thee Well Byron . . . 

Fop, The Shakspeare 

Forging of the Anchor, The S. Ferguson 

George Peabody, To O. W. Holmes . 

Gladiator, The Byron ... 

Henry V Shakspeare 

Ice Palace, The Cowper . . . . 

Lines in a Lady's Album Daniel Webster 

Love of England Byron . . . . 

Lucy, Countess of Bedford, On Ben Jonson 

Man of Ross The Pope . . . , 

Milton, To Wordsworth 

Mountain Daisy, To a Burns . 

Mouse, To a Bums 

Nebuchadnezzar Gower . . 

Nestor to Hector Shakspeare 



XX 



CONTENTS. 



No More Byron . 

On his Blindness Milton 

Outward Bound Byron . 

Palm and Pine Milnes 

Prayer to Ben Jonson Herrick . 

Prisoner of CluUon, Tlie . . . . . . Byron 

Rob Roy's Grave Wordsworth 

Santa FOomena Longfellow 

Siege of Corinth Byron . 

Sir Henry Vane, To • . Milton 

Sir Philip Sidney Matthew Hoyden 

Soldier's Dream, The Campbell . 

Sonnet : " O for my sake do you with fortune chide ! " Shakspeare . 
Sonnet, on his being arrived to the age of twenty- 
three Milton 

Spenser at Court Spenser . 

Stanzas, " Though the day of my destiny's over " Byron 

To live Merrily and to trust to Good Verses . . Herrick . 

Wants of Man, The J. Q. Adams 

When the Assault was intended to the City . . Milton . 

William Sidney on his Birthday, To . . . Ben Jonson 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



Alfred the Harper 

Alice Brand 

Allen-a-Dale 

Amy Wentworth 

Auld Robin Gray 

Battle of Harlaw _ . 

Boy of Egremond, The . . . 7 . . 

Braes of Yarrow, The 

Bristowe Tragedy 

Bruce and the Abbot 

Child Dyring 

Cliildren in the Wood 

Chimney-Sweep, The 

Crowning of Arthur, The 

Drowned Lovers, The 

Duchess May, Rh3rme of 

Earl o' Quarterdeck, The 

Fair Annie 

Fair Helen 

Fidelity 

Fitz Traver's Song 

Friar of Orders Gray 

Garci Perez de Vargas 

Gate of Camelot, The 

Gay Goss-Hawk, The 

George Nidiver 

Glenara 

Glenlogie 

Graeme and Bewick 

Griselda 

Heir of Linne, The 

Helvellyn 

High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, The . 

House of Busyrane 

How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 

Island, The 

King John and the Abbot of Canterbury . ' . 

Kinmont Willie 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere 

Lady Clare 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 

Lake of the Dismal Swamp, The 

Lochinvar 

Mass, The 

CEnone ; or, the Choice of Paris 

Relief of Luckuow, The 

Rhotruda 



Sterling . 

Scott . 

Scott . 

Whittier 

Lady Anne Lindsay 

Scott . 

Wordsworth 

W. Hamilton 

T. Chatterton . 

Scott 

Scott . 

Anonymous . 

E. S.H. . 

Tennyson 

Anonymous 

E. B. Browning . 

George MacDonald 

Scott 

Scott . 

Wordsworth . 

Scott . 

Scott 

Lockhart . 

Tennyson 

Scott 

E.H. . 

Campbell . 

Smith's Scottish Minstrel 

Scott . 

Chaucer 

Percy's Reliques 

Scott . 

Jean Ingelow . 

Spenser . 

Robert Brovming 

Byron . 

Percy's Reliques 

Scott 

Tennyson . 

Tennyson 

E. B, Broioning 

Moore . 

Scott . 

Scott . 

Tennyson . 

Robert Loioell 

Tuckerman 



CONTENTS. 



XXI 



Rosabelle 

Sally from Coventry, The . 

Sea-Cavo, The 

Skipper Ireson's Rido .... 
Siege and Conquest of Alliama 
Sir Andrew Barton .... 
Sir Patrick Spens .... 
Sir Pavon and St. Pavon 
Song of the Tonga-Islauders . 

Svend Vonved 

Telling the Bees .... 
Vision of Belshazzar .... 
Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny . 
Wild Huntsman, The .... 
William of Cloudesl6 

Winstanley 

Wreck of " The Grace of Sunderland' 



Scott .... 

G?. W. Thombury . 

Byron .... 

Wkittier . . . , 

Byron .... 

Anonymous 

Anonymous . 

Sara H. Palfrey . 

Anonymous . 

George Borrow (Trans.) 

Whittier 

Byron . . . . 

Anonymous . 

Scott (Trans.) . 

Anonymous . 

Jean Ingelow . 

Jean Ingelow 



SONGS, 



Althea, To . . ■ Lovelace . 

Araby's Daughter Moore . 

Ariel's Song Shakspeare 

Auld Lang Syiie Burns . 

A Weai-y Lot is Thine Scott . 

Banks of Doon, The Bums . 

Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind Shakspeare 

Boatie Rows, The Anonymous 

Bonny Dundee Scott . 

Britlal of Audalla, The Lockhart 

Brignall Banks Scott . 

Bugle-Soug, The Tennyson 

Canadian Boat-Song Moore 

Celia, To Ben Jonson 

Ceres, Song to Leigh Hunt 

Clan- Alpine, Song of Scott 



Come Away, Come Away, Death .... Shaksjjeare 

County Guy Scott 

Disdain Returned Thomas Carew 

Dying Bard, The Scott 

Full Fathom Five thy Father Lies .... Shakspeare 

Garden Song Tennyson 

Goldilocks Jean Ingelow . 

Go, Lovely Rose ! Waller . 

Hark, Hark, the Lark ! Shakspeare 

Hero to Leander Tennyson 

Jeanie Morrison Motherwell 

John Anderson, My Jo Bums . 

Love Samuel Daniel 

Love's Young Dream Moore 

Manly Heart, The G. Wither 

Marj' Donnelly Allingham . 

Masque of Pleasure and Virtue .... Ben Jonson 

Night Piece : to Julia Herrick . 

Night-Sea, The Harriet Prescott Spofford 

Of A' the Airts Bums . 

Oft in the Stilly Night Moore 

O my Lhve's like a Red, Red Rose .... Bums . 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Scott . 

River Song F. B. Sanborn 

Rose, To the Herrick 

Sailor, The Allingham . 

Song of Echo Ben Jonson 

Song Milton . 

Song from Jason William Morris 

Song from Neptune's Triumph Ben Jonson . 

Song: " Shake off your heavy trance " . . . Beaumont and Fletcher 

Song: " When Daisies Pied " Shakspeare . 

Take, O Take Those Lips away Shakspeare 



xxu 



CONTENTS. 



Tell Me where is Fancy Bred S haJc spear e. . 

Thekla's Song Anonyimus ( Trans.) 

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls . . . Moore .. 

There's Nae Luck about the House . . . . W.J. Miclcle . 

Under the Greenwood-Tree Shakspeare . 



DIKGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



Braes of Yarrow, The 

Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna, The . 

Coronach 

Departed 

Deserted House, The 

Dion 

Dirge for Dorcas 

Dirge: "He is gone — is dust" 

Dirge in Cynibeline 

Epitaph from Simonides 

Fear no More the Heat o' th' Sun .... 

He's Gane 

Hosea Biglow's Lament 

Laborer, The 

Lachrimas; or, Mirth turned to Mourning . 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots on the Approach of 
Spring 

Lines written at Grasmere on Tidings of the Approach- 
ing Death of Charles James Fox .... 

Lycidas 

Lykewake l>irge 

Murdered Traveller, The 

Nymph Mourning her Fawn, The .... 

Ode: " How sleep the brave who sink to rest" . 

Ode on the Death of the Didie of Wellington 

Ode on the Death of Thomson 

Ode on the Consecration of Sleepy-Hollow Cemetery 

On Sir Philip Sidney 

On the Loss of the " Royal George " ... 

Othello's Last Words 

Sleepy Hollow 

Thyrsis 

Winding-Sheet, To his 



J. Logan . 

Charles Wolfe 

Scott . 

Wordsworth 

Tennyson . 

Wordsworth 

Herrick 

Coleridge {Trans.) 

Collins 

Anonymous 

Shakspeare 

Burns 

Lotnell . 

John Clare 

Herrick . 

Burns 



Burns 



Wordsioorth 

Milton . 

Anon. 

Bryant . 

Marvell 

Collins . 

Tennyson . 

Collins . 

F. B. Snnbnrn . 

Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke 

Cowper .... 

Shakspeare . 

Channing . 

Matthew Arnold 

-Herrick 



COMIC AND HUMOROUS. 

Satirical. 



Atheism Clough 

Chiquita Bret Harte . 

Collusion between a Alegaiter and a Water-Snaik . J. W. Morris 

Contentment Holmes . 

Cosmic Egg, The Anonymous 

Dorothy Q Holmes 

Fight over the Body of Keitt, The .... Punch . 

Her Letter Bret Harte 

His Answer to " Her Letter " Bret Harte . 

Holy Willie's Prayer , . Burns 

Jove and the Souls Swift 

Mignonette G.B. Bnrtlett 

Old Cove, The H. H. Brownell 

Origin of Didactic Poetry, The Lowell 

Plain Language from Truthful James . . . . Bret Harte 

Puritans Butler 

Rudolph, The Headsman Holmes . 

Tam O'Shanter Bums 

The Courtin' Lowell . 

The Deacon's Masterpiece; or. The Wonderful One- 

Hoss-Shay Holmes 



CONTENTS. 



XXIU 



The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder . Canning 

To the Devil Bums 

To the Unco Guid ; or, the Rigidly Righteous . . Bums . 

Witch of rife, The Hogg . 



504 
483 

482 

487 



POETRY OF TERROR. 



Apparition, The Byron . 

Clarence's JJreani Shakspeare 



Corsair, The 

Crime 

Hesitation 

Incantation from Manfred 
I see Men's Judgments are 
Macbeth is ripe for shaking 

Manfred Byron 

Merciful Heaven Shakspeare 

Remorse Shakspeare .... 

Song of the Parcre Goethe trans, by Frothingham 

Thea Keats 



Byron 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare 

Byrmi 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare 



The Gods are Just 

This Army led by a Delicate and Tender Prince 

Tiger, The . .• . . ^ . 

To begiule the time 

Turner 

When we in our viciousness grow hard 



Shakspeare 
Shakspeare . 
William Blake 
Shakspeare . 
J. J. G. Wilkinson . 
Shakspeare . 



514 
511 
512 
510 
512 
512 
511 
510 
513 
511 
510 
510 
509 
511 
512 
509 

509 
510 



ORACLES AND COUNSELS. 
Good Counsel. — Supkeme Hours. 

Antony and the Soothsayer Shakspeare 

Beware Scott 

Cleopatra's Resolution Shakspeare 

Courage Shakspeare 

Each and all Shakspeare 

Faith Mrs. Kemble 

Firmness Shakspeare 

Good Heart Burns . 

Guidance Shaks2)eare 

Human Life Shakspeare 

If men be worlds Donne 

Knowing the heart of man Daniel . 

Mine honesty and I begin to square .... Shakspeare 

Mother's Blessing Shakspeare 

O how feeble is man's power Donne 

Opportunity Shakspeare 

Saturn Keats 

The flighty purpose never is o'ertook .... Shakspeare 

The Nobly Born E. S. H. . 

The recluse hennit Donne . 

There is a history Shakspeare 

There is a mystery Shakspeare 

True Dignity Wordsworth 

Trust . . • Wordsworth 

Ulysses and Achilles Shakspeare 



519 

517 
521 
520 
520 
518 
521 
518 
521 
521 
517 
517 
521 
520 
517 
517 
518 
520 
518 
517 
517 
517 
520 
521 
SIS 



Il^DEX OF AUTHOES. 



Adams, John Qoincy. 

Bom in Quincy, Mass., 1767; died 

ISiS. 

Tlie Wants of Man 280 

Addison, Joseph. 

Bom in Wiltshire, Eng., 1672; died 

1719. 

The Spacious Firmament . . .180 

Akenside, Mark. 

Bom in Nev)castle-upon-Tyne, 

1721 ; died 1770. 

Pleasures of Imagination . . .99 

AliEXANDEB, MBS. C. F. 

Burial of Moses 290 

Allingham, William. 
Bom in Ireland. 

Mary Donnelly 434 

Morning 94 

^olianHarp 130 

The Bird 36 

The Pilot's Daughter , ... 77 

The Sailor 436 

The Touchstone 158 

Arnold, Matthew. 

Bom in England, 1822. 

Thyrsis 471 

BARBAULD, A.NNA L^TITIA. 

Born in Leicestershire, Eng., 1743; 
died 1825. 

Lire 169 

Praise to God 183 

Bailey, Philip James. 

Bom in Nottingham, Eng. , 1816. 

Forecast 153 

Baknefield, Kiohaed. 

Bom in England. 

The Nightingale 35 



Barnes, William. 

Bom in Dorsetshire. 

The Peasant's Return . . . . 75 

Bartlett, George B. 
Mignonette 605 

Bayly, Thomas Haynes. 

Bom near Bath, Eng., 1797 ; died 

1839. 

Nightingale's Song 35 

Beattie, James. 
Bom in Scotland, 1735 ; died 1803. 

Nature 3 

Night 3 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 
Francis Beaumont horn in Leices- 
tershire, 1586; died 1616. John 
Fletcher horn in Northampton- 
shire, 1576 ; died in London, 1625. 

Bonduca 213 

Love at First Sight 71 

Poet's Mood 138 

Song : " Shake ofC your heavy trance," 433 
To Venus 72 

Berkeley, George. 
Bom in Ireland, 1684 ; died 1573. 
Verse: "Westward the Star of Em- 
pire " 225 

Blake, William. 
Born in London, 1757 ; died 1828. 

Orthodoxy 158 

The Sunilower 29 

The Tiger 509 

Boar, Arthur. 
The Breeding Lark .... 36 

Borrow, George. 

Bom in England, 1803. 

Svend Vonved 328 

XXV 



XXVI 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Browne, Sir Thomas. 
Born in London, 1605 ; died 1682. 

Before Sleep 185 

Bbownell, Henry Howard. 

Bom in Connecticut, 1820 ; died 

1872. 

The Bay Figlit .... 

The Old Cove .... 



248 
502 



Browning, Elizabeth Bajrrett. 

Bom in London, 1809 ; died in 

Florence, 1861. 

Lady GeralcUne's Courtship . . .366 

Rhyme of the Duchess May . . 404 

The Lady's Yes o"* 

Browning, Robert. 

Born in Camberwell, near London, 
1812. 



A King 



282 



How they brought the Good News from 

Ghent to Aix 355 

The Lost Leader ''^■* 



Bryant, William Cullen. 
Born in Cummington, Mass., 1794. 
Death of the Flowers ... 

Song of the Stars 

Thanatopsis 

The Murdered Traveller . 
The Old Man's Funeral . 

The Rivulet 

To a Waterfowl .... 
To the Fringed Gentian 

Burns, Robert. 

Bom near Ayr, Scotland, 1759; 

died 1796. 



Auld Lang Syne .... 

Banks of Doon 

Bannockbum 

He's Gane 

Holy Willie's Prayer 

Honest Poverty 

Inspiration 

John Anderson, my Jo . . . • 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencaim 
Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots 
Of a' the Airts the Wind can Blaw 
Oh, my Luve's like a Red, Red Rose . 

Scotland 

Tarn O' Shanter . • . • • 
The Cotter's Saturday Night . 

The Good Heart 

The Vision 

To a Mountain Daisy . . • • 

To a Movise 

To the Devil 

To the Unco Guid . . . • 

Winter 

Winter Night 

Writing Verses 



29 

44 

168 

457 

167 

25 

37 

30 



439 
447 
219 
458 
481 
147 
95 
438 
458 
456 
442 
443 

. 220 
484 

. 53 
518 

. 219 
279 

. 278 
483 

. 482 
22 

. 24 
95 



Butler, Samuel. 

Born in Worcestershire, 1612; died 

in London, 1680. 



Bykd, William. 

Born in England, about 1540; died 

1623. 1 

My Minde to me a Kingdom is . . ^^ ■ 

Byron, George Gordon (Lord). ■ 
Born in London, 1788 ; died in • 

Greece, 1824. 
Destruction of Sennacherib . . .282 

Fare Thee Well f 

Hurts of Time. ■ ,- , • • • 1% 
Incantation, from Manfred . . o\i 
Island (The Sea Cave) . . . • ^' » 
Jephthah's Daughter ••''%% 

Lachin y Gair -fo 

Love of England ^' ' 

Manfred ^i^ 

Murat 22^ 

No More ^^° 

Outward Bound ■''^ 

She Walks in Beauty . . • ■ • Yn 
Siege and Conquest of Alhama . . ^i" 
Siege of Corinth -^^J 

Solitude . . • . -T lo ;*i • on? 
Song of Saul before his Last Battle . 203 
Stanzas : ' ' Though the day of " . 2*6 

Sunset St 

Swimming ^\^ 

The Apparition . ... • • ^^ 

The Corsair °}^ 

The Execution ^°* 

The Gladiator f°^ 

The Immortal Mind . . • • ]±i 
The Island . • . ■ • • iii 
The Prisoner of Chillon . . . • ^»^ 

The Rainbow ^° 

The Sea ,^^ 

The Skull "J, 

The Stomi *^ 

Vision of Belshazzar . . • • *iS 
Waterloo ^^^ 



Calidasa. 
Supposed to have lived about 50 B. C. 

The Babe (Sir William Jones's trans- 
lation) ...•••"" 

Woman (Prof. Wilson's translation) ''° 



58 



Puritans 



501 



Campbell, Thomas. 

Bom in Glasgoio, 1777; died in 

Boulogne, 1844. 

Battle of the Baltic ■ • • ■ HI 

Glenara ^"^ 

Hohenlinden '^^^ 

Hope . - : „,7 

Lochiel's Warning • • * ' ii 

To the Rainbow ^» 

The Soldier's Dream .... -»» 
Ye Mariners of England . . . • "i 

Canning, George. 

Bom in London, 1770 ; died in Chis- 

wick, 1827. 

The Knif e-Grinder .... 504 

Carew, Thomas. 

Bom in Devonshire, Eng., 1589; 

died 1639. 

Disdain Returned **6 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXVll 



Chaining, William Ellery. 
Bom in Boston. 

Memory 92 

Sea Song 38 

Sloei>y Hollow 460 

The Eartb-Spirit 27 

The Flight of the Wild Greese . . 37 

The Hillside Cot 7 

The Mountain 6 

The Poet's Hope 153 

Chapman, George. 

Bom in England, 1557 ; died in 

London, 1634. 

The Master Spirit 198 

The Praise of Homer . . . .93 

Chatterton, Thomas. 

Bom in Bristol, Eng., 1752; died 

1770. 

Bristowe Tragedy 343 

Chaucer, Geoffrey. 
Bom in London, 1328 ; died 1400. 

Ariadne 75 

Destiny 152 

Duchesse Blanche 60 

Forecast 153 

Fox and Cock 16 

Gentility 83 

Griselda 385 

Prayer to Apollo 96 

The Ciickow and the Nightingale . . 97 

The Milky Way 45 

The Poet 96 

Virginia 67 

Clare, Johk. 

Bom in England, 1793; died 1864. 

The Laborer 456 



Clajrke, James Freeman. 

Born in Boston. 

Rabia (translation) 140 

Clough, Arthttb Hugh. 

Bom in Liverpool, 1819 ; died in 

Florence, 1861. 

Atheism 497 

Bathing ; from The Bothie of Tober na 

Vuolich 20 

Qua Ciirsum Ventus . . . .82 

Coffin, R. B. 

Bom in America. 

Ships at Sea 122 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 

Bom in Devonshire, Eng., 1772; 
died 1834. 
Character .... . . 154 

Dirge : He is gone — is dust (trans, from 

Schiller) 459 

Gene-\-icve 73 

Heroism (trans, from Schiller) . . 195 

Kubla Khan 126 

Mythology (trans, from Schiller) . 120 



Collins, William. 

Bom in Chichester, Eng,, 1720 ; 
died 1756, 

Dirge in Cymbeline 460 

Ode: " How sleep the brave " . . 459 
Ode on the Death of Thomson . . 462 

Ode to Evening 43 

The Passions 128 



CoNGREVE, William. 

Boni near Leeds, Eng., 1670; died 

1729. 

The Cathedral 133 

Cowley, Abraham. 
Bom in London 1618 ; died 1667. 

A Supplication 129 

Epigram on Drake (trans, by Ben 
Jouson) 268 

CowPER, William, 

Bom in Hertfordshire, Eng., 1731; 

died 1800. 

Boadicea . . . . . . . 212 

Dependence 182 

Loss of " The Royal George " , . .463 
My Mother's Picture . . , . 52 

Providence , 182 

The Ice Palace 288 

Crashatv, Richard. 
Boiii in England ; died 1650. 

Satan 179 

Two went up in to the Temple to Pray . 180 

Cunningham, Allan. 

Bom in Blackwood, Scotland, 1784; 
died 1842. 

SearSong: "A wet sheet and a flowing 

sea " 39 

The Lily of Nithsdale .... 75 

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 66 

Daniel, Samuel. 
Bom in Taunton, Eng., 1562; died 



Knowing the Heart of Man is set to be, 517 
Love 446 

Donne, John. 

Bom in London 1573; died 1631. 

Elegy on Mistress Elizabeth Drury . 273 

Ecstasy 70 

Hymn'to God, my God, in my Sickness, 186 

Hymn to Christ 180 

If " Men be Worlds .... 517 

Love 62 

Oh, how feeble is Man's Power . . 517 
The recluse Hermit .... 517 
The Undertaking 154 



XXVIU 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Dorr, Julia C. R. 

Bom in America. 

Outgrown 64 

Drayton, Michael. 

Bom in England, 1563; died 1631. 

The Harp 130 

Drummond, William. 
Bom in Scotland, 1585 ; died 1649. 

The Angels 190 

The Shepherds 190 

Dryden, John. 
Born in Northamptonshire, Eng., 
1631; diedXlOO. 
Alexander's Feast . . . .130 

St. Cecilia's Day 127 

Under the Portrait of Milton , . 99 

Emerson, Edward Bliss. 

Born in Boston, 1805 ; died in Porto 

Rico, 1834. 

The Last FareweD 51 

Ferguson, Samuel. 

Bom in Ireland, about 1805. 

Forging of the Anchor . . . 287 

Fkothingham, N. L. 
Bom in Boston, 1793 ; died 1870. 
Translation of Goethe's Song of the 
ParcsB 510 

Gower, John. 

Bom in England, 1320; died 1402. 

Nebuchadnezzar 265 

Gray, Thomas. 

Born in London, 1716 ; died 1771. 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, 169 

Eton CoUege 148 

The Bard 215 

Gbeville, Fulke (Lord 

Brooke). 

Bom in England, 1554; died 1628. 

On Su- Philip Sidney . . . .467 

Hamilton, William. 

Bom in Bangowr, Scotland, 1704; 

died 1754. 

Braes of YaiTOw 412 

Harte, Bret. 

Chicago 261 

Chiquita 502 

Her Letter 495 

His Answer to her Letter . . . 496 
Plain Language from Truthful James 504 



Heber, Reginald. 

Bom in Cheshire, Eng., 1783; died 

1826. 

If thou wert by my side, my Love . . 53 

Hedge, Frederic H. 

Bom in Cambridge, Mass., 1805. 

Questionings 91 

Hemans, Felicia. 

Bom in Liverpool, Eng., 1794; died 

1835. 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . . 225 

Music 130 

Nightingale's Death Song . . .35 
To Corinne 51 

Herbert, George. 
Bom in Wales in 1593; died 1632. 

Affliction 184 

Confession 150 

Constancy 195 

Easter 192 

Gratefulness 184 

Life 151 

Man 143 

Peace 157 

Providence 182 

Sin 159 

The Church Porch 145 

TheEUxir 181 

The Flower 95 

The Pulley 144 

The Quip 147 

Virtue 147 

Herbert, Edward (Lord of II 
Cherbury). * 

Bom in London, 1591 ; died 1648. 
Celinda 172 

Herbick, Robert. ■ 

Born in London, 1591; died 1674. ■ ' 
Argument of his Book ... 3 
Christian MUitant . . ^. . .198 
Corinna's going a-Maying ... 10 

Countiy Life 15 

Dirge for Dorcas 461 

Hymn to the Graces . , . .86 
LachiiniEe ; or, Mirth turned to Mourn- 
ing 455 

Litany to the Holy Spirit . . .186 

Matins 185 

Night Piece to Julia .... 445 
Not Every Day fit for Verse , . .93 
Ode to Ben Jonson .... 270 
Prayer to Ben Jonson .... 269 
Poetry of Dress . . " . . . 87 

Star Song 190 

The Primrose 32 

The Rose 443 

The Wliite Island .... 123 

To Blossoms 33 

To Daffodills 33 

To his Winding Sheet . . . .458 

To Live Menily and to Trust to Good 

Verses ... . . .269 

To Silvia 58 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXIX 



Heywood, John, 

Born in England; died 1565. 

rbe Portrait 65 

E. H. 

Geoi-ge Nidiver 327 

Hogg, James. 

Born in Ettrick, Scotland, 1772; 

died 1835. 

Kilmeny 120 

The Witch of Fifo 487 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 
Born in Cambridge, Mass., 1809. 

Contentment 499 

Dorothy Q 498 

Never or Now 232 

Old Ironsides -226 

Rudolph the Headsman . . . 503 
The Deacon's Masterpiece; or, The 

Wonderful One-Hoss Shay . . 492 
To George Peabody .... 282 

Howe, Julia Ward. 

Bom in Neto York. 

Battle Hjnnn of the Republic . . 230 

The Flag 236 

HoNT, Leigh. 

Bom in Middlesex, Eng., 1784; 

died 1859. 

Abou Ben Adhem 158 

Song to Ceres 434 



E. S. H. 
The Chimney Sweep .... 339 

The Nobly Bom 518 

The Wood Fire 56 

Wayfarers 159 

H. H. 

Ariadne's Farewell .... 202 

Coronation 202 

Joy 157 

My Legacy 176 

Thought 91 

iNGELow, Jean. 
Bom in England, 1825. 

Di^ded 80 

Goldilocks 443 

High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 340 

Winstanley 322 

Wreck of the "Grace of Sunderland" 320 

Jones, Sir William. 

Bom in London, 1746; died 1794. 

Narayena, Spirit of God (translation) . 180 

The Babe (translation from Calidasa) . 56 

JoNSON, Ben. 
Bom in London, 1574; died 1637. 

Chivalry 199 

flpigram 269 

Epigram (trans.) 268 



JoNSON, Ben (continued). 
Epistle to a Friend to Persuade Him to 

the Wars 196 

Epitaph: "Underneath this sable 

hearse" 269 

Epitaph : " Underneath this stone doth 

lye" 268 

Fame loi 

Fantasy 123 

Freedom in Dress 87 

May 9 

Masque of Pleasure and Virtue . . 433 

Nature 3 

Ode to Himself 93 

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford . . 268 
Song: "How near to good is what is 

fair" 87 

Song: " The owl is abroad " . . 125 

Song of Echo 441 

Song : " See the chariot at hand " . 73 
Song: "Spring all the graces of the 

age " 434 

To Celia . .... 445 

To the Countess of Rutland . . .269 
To William Sidney, on his Birthday 269 

Keats, John. 

Bom in London, 1796 ; died 1820. 
Hjrperion : " As heaven and earth are 

fairer " 143 

Hyperion (Music) 128 

Hyperion (Saturn, as he walked into 

the midst) 518 

Hyperion (Thea) 509 

On First Looking into Chapman's 

Homer 94 

The Nightingale 34 

Kemble, Mrs. Frances Anne. 

Born in London, about 1811. 

Faith 518 

Knowles, Herbert. 
Born in England. 
Written in the Churchyard of Rich- 
mond, Yorkshire . . .167 

Landor, Walter Savage. 

Bom in Wartvickshire, Eng., 1775 ; 

died 1864. 

Inscription on a Sea-Shell . , .40 

Larcom, Lucy. 

Bom in Massachusetts. 

A Loyal Woman's No . . . .248 

Lewis, David. 
Lines to Alexander Pope . . .272 

Lindsay, Lady Anne. 

Bom in Scotland, 1750 : died in 

London, 1825. 

Auld Robin Gray 383 

LocKHART, John Gibson. 

Born in Glasgow, Scotland, 1792 : 

d'ied 1854. 

Bridal of Andalla 447 

Garci Perez de Vargas . . . 300 



XXX 



INDEX OF AUTHOES. 



Lodge, Thomas. 

Bom in England, 1556 ; died 1625. 

Rosaline 72 

LoGAi^, John. 

Bom in Scotland, 1748 ; died 1788. 

The Braes of Yarrow . . . .456 

Longfellow, Henry "Wads- 

WOETH. 

Bom in Portland, Me., 1807. 

Agassiz, on the Fiftieth Birthday of . 280 

Life 149 

Santa Filomena 280 

The Birds of KOlingworth . . . 11 

The Children's Hour . . . .57 

The Cumberland 239 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports . 224 

Lovelace, Biohaed. 
Bom in Kent, Eng., 1618; died 1658. 

ToAlthea 445 

To Lucasta -63 

The Grasshopper 16 

Lowell, James Russell. 

Born in Cambridge, Mass., 1819. 

Commemoration Ode .... 258 

Hosea Biglow's Lament . . . 476 

Mason and Slidell 234 

Origin of Didactic Poetry . . . 483 
Suntliin' in a Pastoral Line . . . 240 

The Courtia' 494 

The Washers of the Shroud . . .237 

Lowell, Robert T. S. 

Bom in Boston, Mass., 1816. 

The Relief of Lucknow . . .311 

LuNT, George. 
Bom, in Newhuryport, Mass., 1803. 
Requiem: "Breathe, trumpets, 

breathe " 257 

Macdonald, George. 

Bom in Scotland. 

The Earl o' Quarterdeck . . . 318 

Marvell, Andrew. 
Bom in England, 1620 ; died 1678. 

A Drop of Dew 47 

Cromwell and King Charles . . 219 

The Garden 25 

The Nymph Mourning her Fawn . 455 
Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda . 41 

Mellen, Grenville. 
Born in America, 1799; died 1841. 

Bunker Hill 226 

Entrance of Columbus into Barcelona 225 

Messinger, Robert Hinckley. 

Bom in Boston, Mass., about 1807. 

trive me the Old 57 



MicKLE, William Julius. 

Bom in Dumfries-shire, Scotland, 

1734; died 1788. 

There's Nae Luck about the House . 437 

MiLNES, Richard Monckton 
(Lord Houghton). 

Bom in Yorkshire, Eng., 1809. 

Humility 145 

The Palm and the Pine . . .289 

Milton, John. 
Boryi i7i London, 1608 ; died 1674. 

Christmas Hymn 187 

Comus 104 

Epitaph on Shakspeare .... 268 

II Penseroso 18 

L'Allegi-o 4 

Lycidas 467 

Samson Agonistes .... 199 

Song: "Sweet Echo". . . . 441 
On His being Arrived at the Age of 

Twenty-three 270 

Sonnet on his Blindness . . . 271 
Sonnet on the Late Massacre in Pie- 

mont 195 

Sonnet to Sir Henry Vane . . . 271 

To Be no More 169 

When the Assault was intended to the 

City 274 



MiTCHEL, Walter. 

Bom in America. 
Tacking Ship off Shore 



40 



Montgomery, James. 

Born in Irvine, Scotland, 1771 ; 

died 1834. 

The Sun-Dial 151 



Montrose (James Grahame), 

Marquis of. 

Bom in Montrose, Scotland, 1612 ; 

executed 1650. 



I'll never Love Thee more . 



63 



Moore, Thomas. 
Born in Dublin, 1779 ; died 1852. 

Araby's Daughter 435 

Canadian Boat-Song .... 430 
Harp that once through Tara's Halls . 435 
Lake of the Dismal Swamp . . 335 
Love's Young Dream .... 446 
Oft in the Stilly Night .... 438 

Song of Fionuuala 126 

To Campbell 276 

The Caliph's Encampment . . . 286 

More, Henry. 

Bom in Gi-aiitJiam^i Eng., IGH; 

died 1687. 

Euthanasia 173 

Love and Humility 176 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXXI 



Morris, J, W. 
Born t?i America. 
A Collusion between a Alegaiter and a 
Wator-Suaik 491 

Mouuis, William. 
Born ill England. 
Song from J:i!<ou : "1 know a little 
garden clcse " 442 

Morse, Sidney H. 

Horn in America. 

Sundered 82 

Motherwell, William. 

Born in Scotland, 1707 ; died 1835. 

Jeanie Morrison 438 

Palfrey, Sara H. [E. Foxton ] 

Bom in America. 

Sir Pavon and Saint Pavon . . 417 

Patmore, Coventry. 
Born in Essex, Eng., 1823. 

Honoria 59 

Sentences 76 

The Queen 63 

The Kose of tlie World ... 58 

The Tribute 66 

Wisdom 146 

Percival, James Gates. 

Born in Berlin, Conn., 1795; f/terfl856. 

The Coral Grove 39 

Percy's Reliques. 

Heir of Linne 307 

King John and the Abbot of Canter- 
bury 352 

PoLLOK, Robert. 

Born in Renfrewshire, Scotland, 

1799; died 1%27. 

The Ocean 38 

Pope, Alexander. 
Bom in London 1688 ; died 1744. 

Man of Ross 272 

Portrait of Addison .... 271 

London Punch. 

Abraham Lincoln 254 

A Greeting to the " George Griswold," 227 
Fight over the Dead Body of Keitt . 500 

Raleigh, Sir Walter. 

Bom in Budleigh, Eng., 15.52 ; 

beheaded 1618. 

Pilgrimage 16o 

The Soul's Errand .... 139 

R.4.NDALL, James R. 
Maryland 230 

RoYDON, Matthew. 
On Sir Philip Sidney . . . .268 



Sanborn, F. B. 




Bom in America. 




Anathemata 


. 59 


River Song . . ... 


. 442 


Ode written for the Consecration 


of 


Sleepy Hollow Cemetery 


. 462 


Schiller (see Coleridge). 




Born in Germany. 




Scott, Sir Walter. 




Born in Edinburgh, 1771 ; died 1832. 


Allen-arDale 


. 363 


Alice Brand 


334 


A Weary Lot is Thine . 


. 448 


Battle of Harlaw 


301 


Beware 


. 517 


Bonny Dundee .... 


449 


Brignall Banks .... 


. 449 


Bruce and the Abbot .... 


415 


Child Dyring 


. .336 


Clan Alpine 


450 


Coronach 


. 461 


County Guy 


442 


Defiance 


, 218 


Dreams 


122 


Fair Annie ...... 


. 384 


Fair Helen . . . . . 


. 411 


Fitz Travers' Song 


. 364 


Friar of Orders Gray 


. S49 


Graeme and Bewick 


. 350 


Helvellyn 


. 326 


Kinmont Willie .... 


. 301 


Lochinvar 


. 356 


Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 


450 


Rosabelle 


. 414 


The Dying Bard .... 


. 451 


The Gay Goss-Hawk 


. 361 


The Mass 


349 


Wild Huntsman .... 


. 330 



Shakspeare, William. 

Born in Strafford-on-Aron, Eng., 

1564; died 1616. 

Antony and the Soothsayer . . 519 

Antony over the Dead Body of Cassar . 205 

Ariel's Song 440 

Art and Nature 132 

Battle of St. Crispian's Day . .211 
Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind . . 439 
Bolingbroke's Entrance into London 285 
Cassius . . . • . . . . 203 

Clarence's Dream 511 

Cleopatra 283 

Cleopatra's Resolution .... 521- 
Come Away, Come Away, Death . 439 

Common Sense 76 

Compliment to Queen Elizabeth . 124 

Coriolanus 265 

Courage 520 

Crime 510 

Dawn 5 

Dover Cliffs 8 

Each and All 520 

Fear no More the Heat o' the Sun . 461 

Firmness 521 

Flowers 29 

Fop 286 

Foresight 92 

Full Fathoms Five thy Father Lies . 441 

Good Omens l.')2 

Guidance 521 



XXXll 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Shakspeare, William (continued.) 

Hamlet's Soliloquj' 160 

Hark, Hark, the Lark ! ... 441 

Henry V 267 

Henry V.'s Audience of French Ambas- 
sadors 210 

Hesitation . .... 512 

Hotspur 208 

Hotspur's Quarrel with Henry IV. . 207 

Human Life 521 

Inborn Royalty 83 

I See Men's Judgments .... 511 

KinsrLear 102 

King Richard's Soliloquy . . . 211 

Life and Death 161 

Macbeth is Eipe for Shaking . . .510 
Merciful Heaven ! . . . .511 

Moonlight 43 

Morning 6 

Mother's Blessing 520 

Nestor to Hector 265 

Night 34 

Opportunity 517 

Oracle: " Mine honesty and I " . . 521 
Oracle :" The flighty purpose " . . 520 
Oracle : " There is a mystery in the," 517 
Oracle: " There is a history" . .517 
Oracle: " We must not stinf " . . 521 
Orpheus with liis Lute .... 127 

Othello's Defence 69 

Othello's Last Words . . . . 476 

Out and Inward Bound ... 40 
Prayers ....... 159 

Phoenix and Turtle-Dove . . . 123 

Queen Mab 125 

Remorse 510 

Revolutions 152 

Romeo's Presage 122 

Seven Ages 151 

Sleep 160 

Sonnet: "From you have I been ab- 
sent" 133 

Sonnet: "Full many a gloiious morn- 

iug" 6 

Sonnet : " How oft when thou my mu- 
sic" 73 

Sonnet : " Let me not to the marriage," 77 
Sonnet: " Oh, for my sake " . . 271 
Sonnet: " Oh, how much more doth " . 133 
Sonnet : " So am I as the rich " . . 78 
Sonnet: " To me, fair friend " . . 86 
Sonnet: " When I do count the clock " 86 
Speech of the Dauphin .... 207 
Take, O Take those Lips away . . 444 
Tell me where is Fancy Bred . . 441 

The Black Prince 266 

The Gods arc Just 511 

This Army Led by a Delicate and 

Tender Prince 512 

To Beguile Time 510 

True Love 62 

Ulysses and Achilles .... 518 
Ui'ider the Greenwood Tree . . . 440 
Viola Disguised, and the Duke . . 68 
When Daisies Pied and Violets Blue . 440 
When we in our Viciousness grow Hard, 510 

Shelley, Percy Bvsshe. 

Horn m Sussex, Eng., 1792; died 
1822. 

The Cloud 46 

To a Skylark 30 



Shirley, James. 

Bom in London, about 1594; died 

1666. 

Death's Final Conquest . . .167 

Sidney, Sir Philip. 

Born in Penhurst Kent, Eng., 1554; 

died 1586. 

Psalm XCIII 178 

Psalm CXXSIX 178 

Psalm XCVl 181 

SiMONIDES. 

Bom in Julis, Island of Ceos, 

B.C. 654. 

Epitaph 463 

Southwell, Robert. 

Bom in England, 1556 ; executed 

1595. 

New Prince, New Pomp . . . 191 

The Burning Babe 191 

Spenser, Edmund. 
Born in London, 1553 ; died 1599. 

Beauty 84 

House of Busyrane 293 

Spenser at Court 267 

The Bride 67 

Trees 30 

Una and the Lion 85 

Spofford, Harriet Prescott. 

Born in America. 
The Night Sea 448 



Sprague, Charles. 
Bom in Boston, Mass., 1791. 

The Indians 

The Ocean 



225 
38 



Stedman, Edmund Clarence. 

Born in America. 

John Brown of Osawatomie . . . 227 

Sterling, John, 

Born in the Island of Bute, 1806 ; 

died 1844. 

Alfred the Harper .... 298 

Dtedalus 132 

Sternhold, Thomas. 
Bom in England ; died 1549. 
Psalm XVIII 



182 



Strode, William. 

Bom in England, 1600 ; died 1644. 

Music 127 

Suckling, Sir John. 

Born in Whitidii, Eng., 1609; died 

1611. 

Moods 139 

The Bride 68 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXXlll 



Swift, Jonathan. 
Born in Dublin, 1667 ; died 1745. 

Jove and the Souls 502 

Taylor, Henry. 
Born in England, about 1800. 

Athulf and Ethikla 70 

Taylor, Tom. 
Born in England, 1817. 

Abraham Lincoln 254 

Tennyson, Alfred. 
Bom ill Lincolnshire, Eng., 1810. 

Bugle Song 441 

Christinas 192 

Crowning of Arthur .... 296 
Deatli of tlie Old Year .... 24 

Eagle, Tlie 38 

Gate of Camelot 294 

Hero to Leander 448 

In tlie Fight 223 

Lady Clara Vere de Vera . . . 365 
Lady Clare . . . . . .381 

Landscape 9 

Locksley Hall 134 

Maud 72 

Maud :" The Garden Song " . . 444 

Memory 92 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wel- 
lington 464 

CEnone ; or, the Choice of Paris . . 375 
The Deserted House .... 457 

Tlie Prayer 198 

Tithonus 165 

To the Critic 133 

Ulysses 101 

C. S. T. 
The Poet 95 

Tersteegen, Gerhard (see John 

Wesley.) 
Botiiin Westphalia, Germany, 1697. 

Thomson, James. 

Bom in Roxburghshire, Scotland, 

1700; riierfl748. 

Lost in the Snow 23 

The Nightingale 34 

Thoreau, Henry IJavid. 

Bom in Concord, Mass., 1817 ; died 

1862. 

Haze 48 

Inspiration 94 

Jlist 48 

Smoke 47 

Sympathy 78 

Thornbury, G. W. 

The Sally from Coventry . . .354 

Timrod, Henry. 

Born 1829 ; died, in South Carolina, 

1867. 

Ode sung on the Occasion of Decorating 

the Graves of the Confederate 

Dead, at MagnoUa Cemetery, 

Charleston, S. C 258 



TUCKERMAN, FREDERIC GORDON. 

Bom in 1821 ; died 1873. 

Rhotruda 357 

Trowbridge, J. T. 
Bom in New York, 1827. 

At Sea 48 

Vaughan, Henry-. 

Bom in Nexuton, Eng., 1621 ; died 

1695. 

The Retreat 173 

Very, Jones. 

Bom in Salem, Mass., about 1812. 

The Barberry-Bush .... 32 

The Strangers 159 

Waller, Edmund. 

Born in Colehill, Eng., 1605 ; died 

1687. 

Apology for Having Loved Before . 63 

Go, Lovely Rose 443 

On a Girdle 73 

My Charmer 87 

S. G. W. 

The Shield 150 

The Consolers 150 

Come Morir 166 

Warton, Thomas. 

Born in Basingstoke, Eng., 1728; 

died 1687. 

The Fairies 126 

Wasson, David A. 
Born in America. 

Love against Love 83 

Royalty 198 

Watts, Isaac. 
Bom in SoxUhampton, Eng., 1674; 
died 1748. 
Hymn : " Lord, when I quit this earthly 
stage" 185 

Webster, Daniel. 

Bom in Salisbury, N.U., 1782; 

died 1852. 

Lines Written in a Lady's Album . 281 

Wesley, John. 

Born in Lincolnshire, Eng., 1703; 

died 1795. 

Translation of Tersteegen's Divine 

Love 177 

Moravian Hymn 178 

White, Joseph Blanco. 

Bom in Spain, about 1773 ; died in 

England, 1840. 

Night and Death 44 

White, Henry Kirke. 

Bom in Nottinqham, Eng., 1785; 

died 1806. 

To the Herb Rosemary . . . .32 



XXXIV 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Whittier, Johij Greenleaf. 
Bom in Haverhill, Mass., 1808. 

Amy Wentworth 380 

At Fort Royal ^^i 

Ichabod ^^ 

Skipper Ireson's Ride . . . • fJ* 

Telling the Bees 41* 

My Playmate J» 

What the Birds said . . . . 24b 

Wilkinson, James John Garth. 
Sorn in London, about 1812. 

The Diamond 34 

Turner 509 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker. 
Born in Portland, Me., 1807; died 
1867. 



Lines on Leaving Europe 
To a Child . 



Wilson, John. 

Bom in Scotland, 1785 ; died 1854. 

Translation of Calidasa's Woman . 58 

WiLLSON, FOROEYTHE. 

Born in Little Genesee, iV. Y., 1837; 

died in Alfred Centre, JSf. Y., 1867. 

In State 255 

Wither, George. 

BorninBentworth, Eng., 1588; died 

1667. 

The Manly Heart 446 

The Muse 96 

Wolfe, Charles. 

Bom in Ireland, 1791 ; died 1823. 

Burial of Sir John Moore . . .466 

Wordsworth, William. 

Bom in Coclcermouth, Eng., 1770; 

died 1850. 

Cave of StafCa 42 

Christmas Carol 191 

DafiEodils 33 

Departed 471 

Dion ....... 475 

English Channel 144 

Fidelity" 326 

First of May 9 

Flowers at the Cave of Staffa' . . 42 

Home 51 

Honor 144 

Immortality 173 

Laodamia 162 

Liberty 33 

Lines written on Tidings of the Ap- 
proaching Death of Charles James 

Fox . 463 

Lucy 62 

Morning in the Mountains ... 8 



Wordsworth, Willlam {continued). 

Ode to Duty 149 

Osmunda Regahs 32 

Outline 102 

Pass of Kirkstone .... 28 

Bob Roy's Grave 274 

Scale of Minds 98 

SchiU 222 

September, 1819 34 

Skating 22 

Snow 22 

Sonnet : " Alas ! what boots the long." 221 
Sonnet: "It is not to be thought of" 223 
Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways . 98 
The Boy of Egremond . . . 339 

The Boy Poet 27 

The Evening Star .... 44 

The Happy Warrior . . • -196 

The Skeptic 152 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjuga- 
tion of Switzerland . . . .221 

Tintern Abbey 29 

To Milton 274 

To the Skylark 36 

To Joanna 17 

True Dignity 520 

Trust 521 

Yew-Tiees 31 



WoTTON, Sir Henry. 

Bom in England, 1568 ; died 1639. 

Elizabeth of Bohemia . . • '66 
The Happy Life 146 

Young, Edward. 

Born in Hampshire, Eng., 1684; 
died 1705. 

Penitence 180 

Sleep 160 

Socrates 94 

Anonymous. 

Boatie Rows 437 

Children in the Wood . . ... 337 
Epitaph from Simonides . . .463 
George Washington .... 226 
Glenlogie (Smith's Scottish Minstrel- 
sy) 360 

Inscription on a Wall in St. Edmund's 

Church in Lombard Street, London 102 
Inscription in the Parish Church in 

Faversham in Agro Cantiano . 162 
Inscription in Melrose Abbey . . 161 

Lykewake Dirge 459 

Sir Andrew Barton (old ballads) . . 312 
Sir Patrick Spens (old ballads) . . 317 
Song of the Tonga-Islanders . . .380 
That Each Thing is Hurt of Itself . 154 

The Cosmic Egg 505 

The Drovnied Lovers (Buchan) . . 321 

Thekla's Song 447 

Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny (tea- 
table miscellany) .... 383 
William of CloudesM . . . .306 



t 

NATURE. 
LAND. — SEA. — SKY. 

"Nature the vicax of the Almightie Lord." — Chaucee. 



l^ATUEE. 



ARGUMENT OF HIS BOOK. 

I SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, 
and bowers, 

Of April, May, of June, and July- 
flowers ; 

I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, was- 
sails, wakes. 

Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their 
bridal-cakes. 

I write of youth, of love, and have 
access 

By these, to sing of cleanly wanton- 
ness; 

I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece 
by piece. 

Of balm, of oil, of spice, and amber- 
grece. 

I sing of times trans-shifting ; and I 
write 

How roses first came red, and lilies 
white. 

I write of groves, of twilights, and I 
sing 

The court of Mab, and of the fairie 
king. 

I write of Hell; I sing, and ever 
shall, 

Of Heaven, and hope to have it after 
aU. 

Hekbick. 



NATURE. 

O HOW canst thou renounce the 
boundless store 

Of charms which Nature to her 
votary yields ! 

The warbling woodland, the resound- 
ing shore. 

The pomp of groves, and garniture 
of fields ; 

All that the genial ray of morning 
gilds, 



And all that echoes to the song of 

even. 
All that the mountain's sheltering 

bosom shields, 
Aiid all the dread magnificence of 

heaven, 

how canst thou renounce, and 

hope to be forgiven ! 

James Beattie, 

NIGHT. 

'Tis night, and the landscape is 
lovely no more ; 

1 mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn 

not for you ; 
For morn is approaching, your 

charms to restore. 
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and 

glittering with dew : 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I 

mourn ; 
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will 

save, 
But when shall spring visit the 

mouldering urn ! 
O when shall day dawn on the night 

of the grave ! 

James Beattie. 

NATURE. 

How young and fresh am I to-night, 
To see't kept day by so much light. 
And twelve of my sons stand in their 

Maker's sight! 
Help, wise Prometheus, something 

must be done. 
To show they are the creatures of 

the sun. 

That each to other 
Is a brother. 
And Nature here no stepdame, but a 

mother. 



PARNASSUS. 



Come forth, come forth, prove all 

the numbers then, 
That make perfection up, and may 

absolve you men. 
Bvit show thy winding ways and arts, 
Thy risings, and thy timely starts 
Of stealing fire from ladies' eyes and 

hearts. 
Those softer circles are the young 

man's heaven, 
And there more orbs and planets are 

than seven. 
To know whose motion 
Were a notion 
As worthy of youth's study, as devo- 
tion. 
Come forth, come forth! prove all 

the time will gain, 
For Nature bids the best, and never 

bade in vain. 

Ben Jonson. 



L'ALLEGRO. 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight 

born! 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, 

and sights unholy. 
Find out some uncouth cell, 
Where brooding Darkness spreads 

his jealous wings. 
And the night-raven sings ; 
There under ebon shades, and low- 
brow' d rocks, 
As ragged as thy locks, 
In dark Cimmerian desert ever 

dwell. 
But come, thou Goddess fair and free, 
In heav'n y-clep'd Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth, 
With two sister Graces more. 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 
Or whether (as some sager sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the 

spring, 
Zephyr with Aurora playing. 
As he met her once a-Maying ; 
There on beds of violets blue. 
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with 

thee 
Jest, and youthful Jollity, 



Quips, and Cranks, and wanton 

Wiles, 
Nods, and Becks, and wreathM 

Smiles, 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it as ye go, 
On the light fantastic toe ; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain nymph, sweet Lib- 
erty; 
And if I give thee honor due, 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
To live with her, and live with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures free ; 
To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And singing startle the dull night 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dapi^led dawn doth rise; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow. 
And at my window bid good morrow, 
Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine : 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of Darkness thin. 
And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before: 
Oft listening how the hounds and 

horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn. 
From the side of some hoar hill. 
Through the high wood echoing 

shrill : 
Some time walking, not unseen, 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate. 
Where the great sun begins his state, 
Robed in flames, and amber light, 
The clouds in thousand liveries 

dight; 
Wliile the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
Straight mine eye hath caught new 

pleasures 
Whilst the landscape round it 

measures;' 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 



NATURE. 



Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tutted trees, 
Whore perliaps some beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighboring eyes ; 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, 
x\.re at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs, and other country messes, 
■Which the neat-handed Philiis 

dresses ; 
And then in haste her bow'r she 

leaves, 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead, 
To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 
Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite, 
Wlien the merry bells ring round, 
And the jocund rebecs sound 
To many a youth, and many a maid, 
Dancing in the checker'd shade ; 
And young and old come forth to 

play 
On a sunshine holiday, 
Till the livelong daylight fail. 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. 
With stories told of many a feat. 
How fairy Mab the junkets eat ; 
She was pincht and pull'd, she said, 
And he by friar's lanthorn led. 
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat. 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 
Wlien in one night, ere glimpse of 

morn. 
His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the 

• corn 
That ten day-laborers could not 

end ; 
Then lies him down the lubbar fiend, 
And stretch'd out all the chimney's 

length. 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 
And crop-full out of doors he flings. 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they 

creep, 
By whispering winds soon luU'd 

asleep. 
Tower'd cities please us then. 
And the busy hmn of men, 
tVhere throngs of knights and barons 

bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs 

hold. 
With store of ladies, whose bright 

eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 



Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all com- 
mend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe, with taper clear. 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
With mask, and antique pageantry. 
Such sights as youthfid poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's 

child. 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares. 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed, and giddy cun- 
ning. 
The melting voice through mazes 

running. 
Untwisting aU the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony ; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his 

head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heapt Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the 

ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half regain'd Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give. 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

Milton. 



DAWN. 

Juliet. — Wilt thou be gone? It 
is not yet near day. 

It was the nightingale, and not the 
lark. 

That pierced the fearful hollow of 
thine ear : 

Nightly she sings on yon pomegran- 
ate tree : 

Believe me, love, it was the nightin- 
gale. 

Romeo. — It was the lark, the her- 
ald of the morn. 

No nightingale: look, love, what 
envious streaks 

Do lace the severing clouds in yon- 
der east : 



PARNASSUS. 



Night's candles are burnt out, and 
jocund day 

Stands tiptoe on the misty moun- 
tain-tops ; 

I must be gone and live, or stay and 
die. 

Shakspeare. 



MORNING. 

Tins castle hath a pleasant seat ; the 
air 

Nimbly and sweetly recommends it- 
self 

Unto our gentle senses. 

This guest of summer, 

The temple-haunting martlet, does 
approve, 

By his lov'd mansionry, that the 
heaven's breath 

Smells wooingly here: no jutty, 
frieze, buttress. 

Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird 
hath made 

His pendent bed, and procreant cra- 
dle : Wliere they 

Most breed and haunt, I have ob- 
serv'd the air 

Is delicate. 

Shakspeare: Macbeth. 



SONNET. 

Full many a glorious morning have 
I seen 

Flatter the mountain-tops with sove- 
reign eye. 

Kissing with golden face the mead- 
ows green, 

Gilding pale streams with heavenly 
alchemy. 

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 

With ugly rack on his celestial face. 

And from the forlorn world his vis- 
age hide. 

Stealing unseen to west with this 
disgrace : 

Even so my sun one early morn did 
shine 

With all triumphant splendor on my 
brow ; 

But out ! alack ! he was but one hour 
mine. 

The region cloud hath mask'd him 
from me now. 



Yet him for this my love no whit 

disdaineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain, when 

heaven's sun staineth. 

Shakspeare. 



THE MOUNTAIN. 

. . . Once we built our fortress 
where you see 

Yon group of spruce-trees sidewise 
on the line 

Where the horizon to the eastward 
bounds, — 

A point selected by sagacious art, 

Where all at once we viewed the 
Vermont hills, 

And the long outlines of the moun- 
tain-ridge, 

Ever-renewing, changeful every 
hour. 

Strange, a few cubits raised above 
the plain, 

And a few tables of resistless stone 

Spread round us, with that rich de- 
lightful air, 

Draping high altars in cerulean 
space. 

Could thus enchant the being that 
we are ! 

Those altars, where the airy element 

Flows o'er in new perfection, and re- 
veals 

Its constant lapsing (never stillness 
all). 

As a mother's kiss, touching the 
bright spruce-foliage ; 

And in her wise distilment the soft 
rain, 

Trickling below the sphagnum that 
o'erlays 

The plateau's slope, is led to the ra- 
vine, 

And so electrified by her pure 
breath. 

As if in truth the living water famed 

Recorded in John's mythus, who 
first dashed 

Ideal baptism on Jordan's shore. 

In this sweet solitude, the Moun^ 

tain's life. 
At morn and eve, at rise and hush of 

day, 
I heard the wood-thrush sing in the 

white spruce. 
The living water, the enchanted air 



NATURE. 



So mingling in its crystal clearness 
there 

A sweet, peculiar grace from both, — 
this song, 

Voice of the lonely mountain's fa- 
vorite bird ! 

These steeps inviolate by human 
art, 

Centre of awe, raised over all that 
man 

Would fain enjoy, and consecrate to 
one, 

Lord of the desert and of all be- 
side, 

Consorting with the cloud, the echo- 
ing storm. 

When like a myriad bowls the moun- 
tain wakes 

In all its alleys one responsive roar ; 

And sheeted down the precipice, all 
light 

Tumble the momentary cataracts, — 

The sudden laughter of the moun- 
tain-child. 



On the mountain-peak 
I marked the sage at sunset, where 

he mused, 
Forth looking on the continent of 

hills ; 
While from his feet the five long 

granite spurs 
That bind the centre to the valley's 

side, 
(The spokes from this strange mid- 
dle to the wheel ) 
Stretched in the fitful torrent of the 

gale, 
Bleached on the terraces of leaden 

cloud 
And passages of light, — Sierras long 
In archipelagoes of mountain sky. 
Where it went wandering all the 

livelong year. 
He spoke not, yet methought I 

heard him say, 
"All day and night the same; in 

sun or shade, 
In summer flames, and the jagged, 

biting Ivnife 
That hardy winter splits upon the 

cliff,— 
From earliest time the same. 
One mother and one father brought 

us forth 
Thus gazing on the summits of the 

days, 



Nor wearied yet when generations 

fade. 
The crystal air, the hurrying light, 

the night. 
Always the day that never seems to 

end, 
Always the night whose day does 

never set ; 
One harvest and one reaper, ne'er 

too ripe. 
Sown by the self-preserver, free from 

mould, 
And builded in these granaries of 

heaven. 
This ever-living purity of air. 
In these perpetual centres of repose 
Still softly rocked." 

Chaining. 



THE HILLSIDE COT. 

And here the hermit sat, and told 

his beads. 
And stroked his flowing locks, red 

as the fire. 
Summed up his tale of moon and 

sun and star : 
" How blest are we," he deemed, 

" who so comprise 
The essence of the whole, and of 

ourselves. 
As in a Venice flask of lucent shape. 
Ornate of gilt Arabic, and inscribed 
With Suras from Time's Koran, live 

and pray. 
More than half grateful for the glit- 
tering prize, 
Human existence! If I note my 

powers. 
So poor and frail a toy, the insect's 

prey, 
Itched by a berry, festered by a 

plum. 
The very air infecting my thin 

frame 
With its malarial trick, whom every 

day 
Rushes upon and hustles to the 

grave, 
Yet raised by the great love that 

broods o'er all 
Responsive, to a height beyond all 

thought." 
He ended as the nightly prayer and 

fast 
Summoned him inward. But I sat 

and heard 



PARNASSUS. 



The night-liawks rip the air above 

my head, 
Till midnight, o'er the warm, dry, 

dewless rocks ; 
And saw the blazing dog-star droop 

his fire, 
And the low comet, trailing to the 

south. 
Bend his reverted gaze, and leave 

us free. 

Changing. 



"Here let us live, and si>end away 
our lives," 

Said once Fortunio, " while below, 
absorbed. 

The riotous careering race of man. 

Intent on gain or war, pour out 
their news. 

Let us bring in a chosen company, 

Like that the noblest of our beaute- 
ous maids 

Might lead, — unequalled Margaret, 
herself 

The summary of good for all our state ; 

Composedly thoughtful, genial, yet 
reserved, 

Pure as the wells that dot the ra- 
vine's bed, 

And lofty as the stars that pierce 
her skies. 

Here shall she reign triumphant, 
and preside 

With gentle prudence o'er the camp's 
wild mood, 

Summoning forth much order from 
what else 

Surely must prove unsound." 

Channing. 



MOENING IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

O THEN what soul was his, when, on 

the tops 
Of the high mountains, he beheld 

the sun 
Kise up, and bathe the world in 

light ! He looked — 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of 

earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, beneath 

him lay 
In gladness and deep joy. The 

clouds were touched. 
And in their silent faces did he 

read 



Unutterable love. Sound needed 

none, 
Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
The spectacle ; sensation, soul, and 

form 
All melted into him ; they swallowed 

up 
His animal being ; in them did he live. 
And by them did he live ; they were 

his life. 
In such access of mind, in such 

high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 
Thought was not; in enjoyment it 

expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffered 

no request ; 
Eapt into still communion that tran- 
scends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and 

praise. 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the 

power 
That made him ; it was blessedness 

and love. 

WOKDSWOETH. 



DOVER CLIFFS. 

Come on, sir; here's the place: — 

stand still. — How fearful 
And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eye so 

low! 
The crows and choughs, that wing 

the midway air. 
Show scarce so gross as beetles: 

half way down 
Hangs one that gathers samphire; 

dreadful trade ! 
Methinks he seems no bigger than 

his head : 
The fishermen, that walk upon the 

beach. 
Appear like mice; and yond' tall 

anchoring bark 
Diminish'd to her cock ; her cock, a 

buoy 
Almost too small for sight: the 

murmuring surge, 
That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles 

chafes. 
Cannot be heard so high: — I'll look 

no more ; 
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient 

sight 
Topple down headlong. 

Shakspeare. 



NATURE. 



9 



LANDSCAPE. 

Calm and still light on yon great 

plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn 

bowers, 
And crowded fanns and lessening 

towers, 
To mingle with the bounding main. 
Tennyson. 



MAY. 

Whence is it that the air so sudden 
clears. 

And all things in a moment turn so 
mild ? 

■\Vliose breath or beams have got 
proud Earth with child 

Of all the treasure that great Na- 
ture's worth, 

And makes her every minute to bring 
forth ? 

How comes it winter is so quite 
forced hence 

And locked up under ground ? That 
every sense 

Hath several objects, trees have got 
their heads, 

The fields their coats, that now the 
shining meads 

Do boast the paunce, the lily, and 
the rose, 

And every flower doth laugh as 
Zephyr blows ? 

That seas are now more even than 
the land ; 

The rivers run as smoothed by his 
hand ; 

Only their heads are crisped by his 
stroke. 

How plays the yearling, with his 
brow scarce broke, 

Now in the open grass, and frisking 
lambs 

Make wanton salts about their dry- 
sucked dams, 

Wlio to repair their bags do rob the 
fields. 

How is't each bough a several mu- 
sic yields? 

The lusty throstle, early nightin- 
gale. 

Accord in tune though vary in their 
tale. 

The chirping swallow, called forth 
by the sun. 



And crested lark, doth his division 
run. 

The yellow bees the air with mur- 
mur fill. 

The finches carol and the turtles 
bill; — 

Wliose power is this ? What god ? 

Behold a King, 

Whose presence maketh this perpet- 
ual spring, 

The glories of which spring grow ia 
that bower, 

And are the marks and beauties of 
his power. 

Ben Jonson. 



FIRST OF MAY. 

While from the purpling east de- 
parts 
The star that led the dawn. 
Blithe Flora from her couch up- 
starts. 
For May is on the lawn. 
A quickening hope, a freshening glee, 

Foreran the expected power, 
Wliose first-drawn breath, from bush 
and tree. 
Shakes off that pearly shower. 

All Nature welcomes her whose 
sway 

Tempers the year's extremes ; 
Who scattereth lustres o'er noonday. 

Like morning's dewy gleams; 
While mellow Avarble, sprightly trill. 

The tremulous heart excite ; 
And hums the balmy air to still 

The balance of delight. 

Time was, blest Power ! when youths 
and maids 

At peep of dawn would rise. 
And wander forth, in forest glades 

Thy birth to solemnize. 
Though mute the song — to grace 
the rite 

Untouched the hawthorn bough, 
Thy spirit triumphs o'er the slight ; 

Man changes, but not thou ! 

Thy feathered lieges bill and wings 

In love's disport employ. 
Warmed by thy influence, creeping 
things 

Awake to silent joy : 



10 



PARNASSUS. 



Queen art thou still for each gay 
plant 
Wliere the slim wild deer roves ; 
And served in depths where fishes 
haunt 
Their own mysterious groves. 



And if, on this thy natal morn, 

The pole, from which thy name 
Hath not departed, stands forlorn 

Of song and dance and game. 
Still from the village-green a vow 

Aspires to thee addrest, 
Wlierever peace is on the brow, 

Or love within the breast. 

Yes ! where love nestles thon canst 
teach 

The soul to love the more ; 
Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 

That never loved before. 
Stript is the haughty one of pride. 

The bashful freed from fear, 
While rising, like the ocean-tide. 

In flows the joyous year. 

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words, re- 
fuse 

The service to ijrolong ! 
To yon exulting thrush the Muse 

Intrusts the imperfect song ; 
His voice shall chant, in accents 
clear. 

Throughout the livelong day, 
Till the first silver star appear, 

The sovereignty of May. 

WOBDSWORTH. 



CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. 

Get lip, get up, for shame; tlxe 

blooming Morn 
Upon her wings presents the god 
unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colors through the 

air; 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and 
tree. 
Each flower has wept, and bow'd 

toward the east, 
Above an hour since, yet you not 
drest, 



Nay ! not so much as out of bed ; 
When all the birds have matins 

said, 
And sung their thankful hymns; 

'tis sin. 
Nay, profanation to keep in. 
When as a thousand virgins on this 

day 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to 

fetch in May. 

Rise, and put on your foliage, and 

be seen 
To come forth, like the spring-time 
fresh and green. 
And sweet as Flora. Take no 

care 
For jewels for your gowne or 

haire ; 
Feare not, the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you ; 
Besides, the childhood of the day 

has kept. 
Against you come, some orient pearls 
unwept. 
Come, and receive them while the 

light 
Hangs on the dew-locks of the 

night ; 
And Titan on the eastern hill 
Retires himself, or else stands 
stiil 
Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, 

be briefe in praying; 
Few beads are best, when once we 
go a-Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come ; and com- 
ing, mark 
How each field turns a street, each 
street a park 
Made green, and trimm'd with 

trees ; see how 
Devotion gives each house a 

bough. 
Or branch ; each porch, each doore, 

ere this, 
An ark, a tabernacle is. 
Made up of white-thorn neatly 

interwove ; 
As if here were those cooler sliades 

of love. 
And sin no more, as we have done, 

by staying; 
But, my Corinna.j come, let's go 
a-Maying. 

Hekkick. 



NATURE. 



11 



THE BIRDS OF KILLING- 
WORTH. 

It was the season when through all 

the land 
The mei'le and mavis build, and 

building sing 
Those lovely lyrics written by His 

hand 
Wliom Saxon Csedmon calls the 

Blithe-heart King; 
Wlien on tlie boughs the pui'ple buds 

expand, 
The banners of the vanguard of 

the Spring ; 
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and 

leap. 
And wave their fluttering signals 

from the steep. 

The robin and the bluebird, piping 
loud, 
Filled all the blossoming orchards 
with their glee ; 

The sparrows chirped as if they still 
were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should 
mentioned be ; 

And hvmgry crows, assembled in a 
crowd, 
Clamored their piteous prayer in- 
cessantly, 

Knowing who hears the ravens cry, 
and said, 

" Give us, O Lord, this day our dai- 
ly bread!" 

Across the Sound the birds of pas- 
sage sailed. 
Speaking some unknown language, 
strange and sweet 

Of tropic isle remote, and, passing, 
hailed 
The village with the cheers of all 
their fleet ; 

Or, quarrelling together, laughed 
and railed 
Like foreign sailors landed in the 
street 

Of seaport town, and with, outland- 
ish noise 

Of oaths and gibberish frightening 
girls and boys. 

Thus came the jocund Spring in 
Killingworth, 
In fabulous days, some hundred 
years ago ; 



And thrifty farmers, as they tilled 

the earth. 
Heard with alarm the cawing of 

the crow. 
That mingled with the universal 

mirth, 
Cassandra - like, prognosticating 

woe: 
They shook their heads, and doomed 

with dreadful words 
To swift destruction the whole race 

of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened 

straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty 

heads 
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of 

pay, 
Levied black-mail upon the gar- 
den-beds 
And cornfields, and beheld without 

dismay 
The awful scarecrow, with his 

fluttering shreds, — 
The skeleton that waited at their 

feast. 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was; 

increased. 

Then from his house, a temple paint- 
ed white. 
With fluted columns, and a roof 

of re^. 
The Squire came forlh, — august 

and splendid sight ! — 
Slowly descending, with majestic 

tread, 
Three flights of steps, nor looking 

left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, 

as one who said, 
"A town that boasts inhabitants 

like me 
Can have no lack of good society." 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man 
austere. 
The instinct of whose nature was 
to kill ; 
The wrath of God he preached from 
year to year, 
And read with fervor Edwards on 
the Will : 
His favorite pastime was to slay the 
deer 
In summer on some Adirondack 
hill : 



12 



PARNASSUS, 



E'en now, while walking down the 

rural lane, 
He lopped the wayside lilies with his 

cane. 

From the Academy, whose belfry 
crowned 
The Hill of Science with its vane 
of brass, 
Came the Preceptor, gazing idly 
round. 
Now at the clouds, and now at the 
green grass, 
And all absorbed in reveries pro- 
found 
Of fair Almira in the upper class, 
Who was, as in a sonnet he had said, 
As pure as water, and as good as bread. 

And next the Deacon issued from 
his door. 
In his voluminous neck-cloth, 
white as snow ; 
A suit of sable bombazine he wore : 
His form was ponderous, and his 
step was slow ; 
There never was so wise a man be- 
fore : 
He seemed the incarnate "Well, 
I told you so ! " 
And to perpetuate his great renown, 
There was a street named after him 
in town. 

These came together in the new 
town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from the re- 
gion round : 

The Squire presided, dignified and 
tall, 
His air impressive and his reason- 
ing sound. 

Ill fared it with the birds, both great 
and small ; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd 
they found, 

But enemies enough, who every one 

Charged them with all the crimes 
beneath the sun. 

When they had ended, from his 
place apart 
Eose the Preceptor, to redress the 
wrong, 
A.nd, trembling like a steed before 
the start, 
Looked round bewildered on the 
expectant throng ; 



Then thought of fair Almira, and 

took heart 
To speak out what was in him, 

clear and strong, 
Alike regardless of their smile or 

frown. 
And quite determined not to be 

laughed down. 

" Plato, anticipating the reviewers, 
From his republic banished with- 
out pity 

The poets: in this little town of 
yours, 
You put to death, by means of a 
committee, 

The ballad-singers and the trouba- 
dours. 
The street-musicians of the heav- 
enly city, 

The birds, who make sweet music 
for us all 

In our dark hours, as David did for 
Saul. 

" The thrush, that carols at the dawn 
of day 
From the green steeples of the 
piny wood ; 

The oriole in the elm; the noisy 
jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his 
food; , 

The bluebird balanced on some top- 
most spray. 
Flooding with melody the neigh- 
borhood ; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the 
throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the 
gift of song, — 

" You slay them all ! and wherefore ? 

For the gain 
Of a scant handful, more or less, 

of wheat, 
Or rye, or barley, or some other 

grain. 
Scratched up at random by indus- 
trious feet 
Searching for worm or weevil after 

rain, 
Or a few cherries, that are not so 

sweet 
As are the songs these uninvited 

guests 
Sing at their feast with comfortable 

breasts. 



NATURE. 



13 



"IK^ you ne'er think what wondrous 

beings these ? 
Do you ne'er think who made 

them, and who taught 
The dialect they speak, where melo- 
dies 
Alone are the interpreters of 

thought ? 
Whose household words are songs in 

many keys, 
Sweeter than instrument of man 

e'er caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops 

even 
Are half-way houses on the road to 

heaven ! 

" Think, every morning when the sun 

peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of 

the grove. 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old melodious madrigals of 

love! 
And when you think of this, remem- 
ber, too, 
'Tis always morning somewhere, 

and above 
The awakening continents, from 

shore to shore. 
Somewhere the birds are singing 

evermore. 

" Think of your woods and orchards 

without birds ! 
Of empty nests that cling to 

boughs and beams, 
As in an idiot's brain remembered 

words 
Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of 

his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of 

herds 
Make up for the lost music, when 

your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, and 

no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to 

your door ? 

" What ! would you rather see the in- 
cessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of the 
hay. 
And hear the locust and the grass- 
hopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies 
play? 



Is this more pleasant to you than 

the whirr 
Of meadow-lark, and its sweet 

roundelay. 
Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you 

take 
Your nooning in the shade of bush 

and brake? 

" You call them thieves and pilla- 
gers ; but know 
They are the winged wardens of 
your farms. 

Who from the cornfields drive the 
insidious foe. 
And from your harvests keep a 
hundred harms ; 

Even the blackest of them all, the 
crow, 
Kenders good seiwice as your man- 
at-arms. 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. 

And crying havoc on the slug and 
snail. 

" How can I teach your children gen- 
tleness. 
And mercy to the weak, and reve- 
rence 

For Life, which, in its weakness or 
excess. 
Is still a gleam of God's omnipo- 
tence. 

Or Death, which, seeming darkness, 
is no less 
The selfsame light, although 
averted hence. 

When by your laws, your actions, 
and your speech. 

You contradict the very things I 
teach?" 

With this he closed; and through 

the audience went 
A mumiur like the rustle of dead 

leaves ; 
The farmers laughed and nodded, 

and some bent 
Their yellow heads together like 

their sheaves : 
Men have no faith in fine-spun sen- 
timent 
Who put their trust in bullocks 

and in beeves. 
The birds were doomed ; and, as the 

recoi'd shows, 
A bounty .offered for the head of 

crows. 



14 



PARNASSUS. 



There was another audience out of 

reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in 

making laws, 
But in tlie papers read his little 

speech, 
And crowned his modest temples 

with applause : 
They made him conscious, each one 

more than each, 
He still was victor, vanquished in 

their cause : 
Sweetest of all the applause he won 

from thee, 
O fair Almira at the Academy ! 

And so the dreadful massacre began : 
O'er fields and orchards, and o'er 
woodland crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 
Dead fell the birds, with blood- 
stains on their breasts. 
Or wounded crept away from sight 
of man, 
While the young died of famine in 
their nests : 
A slaughter to be told in groans, not 

words, 
The very St. Bartholomew of birds ! 

The Summer came, and all the birds 
were dead ; 
The days were like hot coals ; the 
very ground 

Was burned to ashes: in the or- 
chards fed 
Myriads of caterpillars, and around 

The cultivated fields and garden- 
beds 
Hosts of devouring insects crawled, 
and found 

No foe to check their march, till 
they had made 

The land a desert without leaf or 
shade. 

Devoured by worms, like Herod, 
was the town. 
Because, like Herod, it had ruth- 
lessly 
Slaughtered the Innocents. From 
the trees spun down 
The canker-worius upon the pass- 
ers-by, — 
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, 
and gown. 
Who shook them off with just a 
little cry: 



They were the terror of each favor- 
ite walk, 

The endless theme of all the village- 
talk. 

The farmers grew impatient ; but a 
few 
Confessed their error, and would 
not complain ; 

For, after all, the best thing one can 
do. 
When it is raining, is to let it rain. 

Then they repealed the law, al- 
though they knew 
It would not call the dead to life 
again : 

As school-boys, finding their mis- 
take too late, 

Draw a wet sponge across the accus- 
ing slate. 

That year in Killingworth the Au- 
tumn came 
Without the light of his majestic 
look. 

The wonder of the falling tongues 
of flame. 
The illumined pages of his Dooms- 
Day Book. 

A few lost leaves blushed crimson 
with their shame. 
And drowned themselves despair- 
ing in the brook, 

"Wliile the wild wind went moaning 
everywhere. 

Lamenting the dead children of the 
air. 

But the next Spring, a stranger sight 
was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was 
sung. 
As great a wonder as it would have 
■■ been. 

If some dumb animal had found 

a tongue : 

A wagon overarched with evergreen. 

Upon whose boughs were wicker 

cages hung. 

All full of singing-birds, came down 

the street. 
Filling the air with music, wild and 
sweet. 

From all the country round these 
birds were brought 
By order of the town, with anx- 
ions quest, 



NATURE. 



15 



And, loosened from their wicker 
prison, sought 
In woods and fields the places they 
loved best, 

Singing loud canticles, which many 
thought 
Were satires to the authorities ad- 
dressed ; 

While others, listening in green 
lanes, averred 

Such lovely music never had been 
heard. 

But blither still and louder carolled 
they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed 
to know 
It was the fair Almira's wedding- 
day; 
And everywhere, around, above, 
below, 
When the Preceptor bore his bride 
away. 
Their songs burst forth in joyous 
overflow. 
And a new heaven bent over a new 

earth 
Amid the sunny farms of Killing- 
worth. 

Longfellow. 



THE COUNTRY LIFE. 

Sweet country life, to such un- 
known. 
Whose lives are others, not their 

own; 
But, serving courts and cities, be 
Less happy, less enjoying thee. 
Thou never plough' st the ocean's 

foame 
To seek and bring rough pepper 

home ; 
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove 
To bring from thence the scorched 

clove ; 
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest. 
Bring' st home the ingot from the 

Avest : 
No, thy ambitious masterpiece 
Flies no thought higher than a fleece ; 
Or to pay thy hinds, and cleere 
All scores, and so to end the yeare: 
But walk'st about thine own dear 

bounds, 
Not envying others' larger grounds ; 



For well thou know'st, 'tis not the 

extent 
Of land makes life, but sweet con- 
tent. 
When now the cock, the ploughman's 

home. 
Calls forth the lily-wristed morne ; 
Then to thy cornfields thou dost go, 
Which, though well soyl'd, yet thou 

dost know. 
That the best compost for the lands 
Is the wise master's feet and hands: 
There at the plough thou find st thy 

teame, 
With a hind whistling there to them ; 
And cheer'st them up, by singing 

how 
The kingdom's portion is the plough ; 
This done, then to the enameled 

meads 
Thou, go'st, and as thy foot there 

treads. 
Thou seest a present godlike power 
Imprinted in each herbe and flower ; 
And smell' st the breath of great-eyed 

kine, 
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine : 
Here thou behold' st thy large sleek 

neat 
Unto the dew-laps up in meat ; 
And as thou look'st, the wanton 

steere. 
The heifer, cow, and oxe draw neare, 
To make a pleasing pastime there : 
These seen, thou go'st to view thy 

flocks 
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox, 
And find'st their bellies there as full 
Of short sweet grass, as backs with 

wool ; 
And leav'st them, as they feed and 

fill, 
A shepherd piping on a hill. 
For sports, for pageantrie, and 

playes, 
Thou hast thy eves and holydayes ; 
On which the young men and maids 

meet 
To exercise their dancing feet. 
Tripping the comely country round, 
With daffodils and daisies crowned. 
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou 

hast, 
Thy May-poles, too, with garlands 

grac't. 
Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun ale. 
Thy shearing-feast, which never 

faile, 



16 

Thy 



PAHNASSUS, 
home, thy wassail 



harvest 

bowle, 

That's tost up after fox i' th' hole, 
Thy mummeries, thy twelf-tide 

kings 
And queenes, thy Christmas revel- 
lings, 
Thy nut-browne mirth, thy russet 

wit, 
And no man pays too deare for it : 
To these thou hast thy times to 

goe, 
A.nd trace the hare i' th' treacherous 

snow; 
Thy witty wiles to draw and get 
The larke into the trammel net ; 
Thovi hast thy cockrood and thy 

glade 
To take the precious pheasant made ; 
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pit-falls 

then 
To catch the pilfering birds, not 

men. 
O happy life ! if that their good 
The husbandmen but understood ; 
Who all the day themselves do 

please, 
And younglings with such sports as 

these ; 
And, lying down, have nought to 

affright 
Sweet sleep, that makes more short 

the night. 

Hekeick. 



FOX AND COCK. 

Now wol I turn unto my tale agen. 
The silly widow and her doughtren 

two, 
Herden these hennes cry and maken 

wo. 
And out of dores sterten they anon, 
And saw the fox toward the wode is 

gon, 
And bare upon his back the cock 

away: 
They criden out ! "Harowand wala 

wa! 
A ha! the fox!" and after him they 

ran. 
And eke with staves many another 

man ; 
Ran Colle our dog, and Talbot, and 

Gerlond ; 
And Malkin, with her distaf in her 

hond; 



Ran cow and calf, and eke the very 

hogges 
So feared were for barking of the 

dogges. 
And shouting of the men and women 

eke, 
They ronnen so, them thought hir 

hertes breke. 
They yelleden as fendes don in 

Helle : 
The dokes crieden as men wold hem 

quelle : 
The gees for fere flewen over the 

trees, 
Out of the hive came the swarme of 

bees. 
So hideous was the noise, a bene- 

dicite ! 
Certes he Jakke Straw, and his 

meinie, 
Ne maden never shoutes half so 

shrill, 
Wlien that they wolden any Fleming 

kill. 
As tliilke day was made upon the fox. 
Of brass they broughten beemes 

and of box. 
Of horn and bone, in which they 

blew and pouped, 
And therwithal they shrieked and 

they houped ; 
It seemed, as the Heven shulde 

falle. 
Chaucer: Nuns^ PriesVs Tale. 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 

TO MY NOBLE FKIEND, MK. CHARLES 
COTTON. 

ODE. 

O THOU that swing' st upon the wav- 
ing ear 
Of some well-filled oaten beard, 
Drunk every night with a delicious 
tear 
Dropt thee from heaven, where 
now thou art reared. 

The joys of earth and air are thine 
entire 
That with thy feet and wings dost 
hop and fly, 
And when thy poppy works thou 
dost retire. 
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 



NATURE. 



17 



Up with the day, the Sun thou wel- 
com'st then, 
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his 
beams, 
And all these merry days raak'st 
merry men 
Thyself and melancholy streams. 

But ah ! the sickle ! golden ears are 
cropt ; 
Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night ; 
Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers 
have topt. 
And what scythes spared winds 
shave off quite. 

Poor verdant fool! and now green 
ice, thy joys 
Large and as lasting as thy perch 
of grass 
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and 
poise 
Their floods with an o'erflowing 
glass. 

Thou best of men and friends, we 
will create 
A genuine summer in each other's 
breast ; 
And spite of this cold time and 
frozen fate, 
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest. 

Our sacred hearths shall burn eter- 
nally 
As vestal flames ; the North-wind, 
he 
Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, 
dissolve, and fly 
This ^tna in epitome. 

Dropping December shall come 
weepuig in, 
Bewail th' usurping of his reign ; 
But when in showers of old Greek* 
we begin. 
Shall cry, he hath his crown 
again ! 

Night as clear Hesper shall our 
tapers whip 
From the light casements where 
we play. 
And the dark hag from her black 
mantle strip. 
And stick there everlasting day. 

* Greek wiue. 



Thus richer than untempted kings 
are we, 
That asking n^othing, nothing 
need ; 
Though lord of all what seas em- 
brace, yet he 
That wants himself is poor indeed. 
KiCHARD Lovelace. 



TO JOANNA. 

As it befell. 
One summer morning we had walked 

abroad 
At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
'Twas that delightful season when 

the broom. 
Full-flowered, and visible on every 

steep, 
Along the copses runs in veins of 

gold. 
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's 

banks ; 
And when we came in front of that 

tall rock 
That eastward looks, I there stopped 

short, and stood 
Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye 
From base to summit ; such delight 

I found 
To note in shrub and tree, in stone 

and flower. 
That intermixture of delicious hues, 
In one impression, by connecting 

foi'ce 
Of their own beauty, imaged in the 

heart. 
When I had gazed perhaps two 

minutes' space, 
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
That ravishment of mine, and 

laughed aloud. 
The Rock, like something starting 

from a sleep, 
Took up the Lady's voice, and 

laughed again; 
That ancient Woman seated on 

Helm-crag 
Was ready with her cavern; Ham- 
mar-scar, 
And the tall Steep of Silver-how, 

sent forth 
A noise of laughter; southern 

Loughrigg heard, 
And Fairfield answered w'ith a 

mountain tone ; 
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 



18 



PARNASSUS. 



Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skid- 
daw blew 

His speaking-trumpet; back out of 
the clouds 

Of Glaramara southward came the 
voice ; 

And Kirkstone tossed it from his 
misty head. 

"Now whether" (said I to our 
cordial friend, 

Who in the hey-day of astonishment 

Smiled in my face), " this were in 
simple truth 

A work accomi^lished by the brother- 
hood 

Of ancient mountains, or my ear 
was touched 

With dreams and visionary iminilses 

To me alone imparted, sure I am 

That there was a loud uproar in the 
hills." 

And while we both were listening, 
to my side 

The fair Joanna drew, as if she 
wished 

To shelter from some object of her 
fear. 

And hence long afterwards, when 
eighteen moons 

Were wasted, as I chanced to walk 
alone 

Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a 
calm 

And silent morning, I sat down, and 
there. 

In memory of affections old and true, 

I chiselled out in those rude charac- 
ters 

Joanna's name deep in the living 
stone ; 

And I arid all who dwell by my 
fireside 

Have called the lovely rock, "Joan- 
na's Eock." 

WOKDSWOKTH. 



IL PENSEEOSO. 

Hence, vain deluding joys, 
The brood of Folly without father 
bred. 
How little you bestead, 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your 
toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain. 
And fancies fond with gaudy 
shapes possess, 



As thick and numberless 
As the gay motes that people the 
sunbeams, 
Or likest hovering dreams 
The fickle pensioners of Mor- 
pheus' train. 
But hail thou Goddess, sage and 

holy. 
Hail divinest Melancholy, 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's 

hue ; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might be- 
seem. 
Or that Starr' d Ethiop queen that 

strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers 

offended : 
Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of 

yore. 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she (in Satiirn's reign. 
Such mixture was not held a stain). 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's iimiost grove, 
Wliile yet there was no fear of Jove. 
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain, 
Flowing with majestic train, 
And sable stole of cyprus-lawn. 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step, and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the 

skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 
There held in holy passion still. 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 
And join with thee calm Peace, and 

Quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth 

diet. 
And hears the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing: 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleas- 
ure; 
But first, and chiefest, with thee 
bring, 



NATURE. 



19 



Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 
The Chenib Contemplation ; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel will deign a song, 
In her sweetest, saddest plight. 
Smoothing the rugged brow of night. 
While Cynthia checks her dragon 

yoke. 
Gently o'er tli' accustomed oak; 
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise 

of folly. 
Most musical, most melancholy! 
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods 

among 
I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
And missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wandering moon, 
Riding near her highest noon, 
Like one tliat had been led astray 
Through the heav'n's wide pathless 

way ; 
And oft, as if her head she bow'd. 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
Oft on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew sound, 
Over some wide-water'd shore. 
Swinging slow with sullen roar; 
Or, if the air will not permit, 
Some still removed place will fit, 
Wliere glowing embers thi-ough the 

room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
Far from all i-esort of mirtli, 
Save the cricket on the hearth. 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
To bless the doors from nightly 

harm : 
Or let my lamp at midniglit hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tow'r. 
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 
AVith thrice-great Hermes, or un- 

sphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds, or what vast regions 

hold 
The immortal mind, that hath for- 
sook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
And of those Demons that are 

found 
Jn fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
Whose power hath a true corisent 
With planet, or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by. 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 



Or the tale of Troy divine, 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 
But, O sad Virgin, that tliy power 
Might raise Musseus from his bower, 
Or bid tlie soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 
And made Hell grant what love did 

seek. 
Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold. 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And wlio had Canace to wife, 
That own'd the virtuous ring and 

glass. 
And of tlie wondrous horse of brass, 
On wliich tlie Tartar king did ride ; 
And if auglit else great bards be- 
side. 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
Of turneys and of trophies hung, 
Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
Wliere more is meant than meets the 

ear. 
Thus Night oft see me in thy pale 

career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was 

wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or usher'd with a shower still, 
Wlien the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending on the rustling leaves. 
With minute drops from off the 

eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me. Goddess, 

bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves. 
And shadows brown that Sylvau 

loves 
Of pine, or monumental oak, 
Where the rude axe with heaved 

stroke 
Was never heard the Nymphs to 

daunt. 
Or fright them from their hallow'd 

haunt. 
There in close covert by some brook, 
Wliere. no profaner eye may look, 
Hide me from day's garish eye, 
While the bee with honied thigh, 
That at her flowery work doth sing, 
And the waters murmuring 
With such consort as they keep, 



20 



PARNASSUS. 



Entice the dewy-featlier'd Sleep; 
And let some strange mysterious 

dream 
Wave at his wings in aery stream 
Of lively portraiture display' d, 
Softly on my eyelids laid. 
And as I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath, 
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 
Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 
But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale. 
And love the high embowed roof, 
With antique pillars massy proof, 
And storied windows richly dight, 
Casting a dim religious light : 
There let the pealing organ blow, 
To the full voic'd quire below. 
In service high, and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness, through mine 

ear, 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
And bring all heav'n before mine 

eyes. 
And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heav'n doth show, 
And every herb that sips the dew ; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 
These pleasures Melancholy give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 
Milton. 



FEOM THE BOTHIE OF TOBEK 
NA VUOLICH. 

There is a stream, I name not its 

name, lest inquisitive tourist 
Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get 

it at last into guide-books. 
Springing far off from a loch vinex- 

plored in the folds of great 

mountains, 
Falling two miles throitgh rowan 

and stunted alder, enveloped 
Then for four more in a forest of 

pine, where broad and ample 
Spreads, to convey it, the glen with 

heathery slopes on both sides : 
Broad and fair the stream, with 

occasional falls and narrows ; 
But, where the glen of its course 

approaches the vale of the 

river, 



Met and blocked by a huge interpos- 
ing mass of granite. 
Scarce by a channel deep-cut, ragingl 

up and raging onward, | 

Forces its flood through a passage' 

so narrow a lady would step 

it, 
There, across the great roclcy 

wharves, a wooden bridge 

goes. 
Carrying a path to the forest; be- 
low, three hundred yards, say 
Lower in level some twenty-five 

feet, through flats of shingle, 
Stepping-stones and a cart-track 

cross in the open valley. 
But in the interval here the boiling, 

pent-up water 
Frees itself by a final descent, at- 
taining a basin, 
Ten feet wide and eighteen long, 

with whiteness and fury 
Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, 

pure, a mirror; 
Beautiful there for color derived 

from green rocks under ; 
Beavitiful, most of all, where beads 

of foam uprising 
Mingle their clouds of white with the 

delicate hue of the stillness. 
Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan 

and pendent birch-boughs, 
Here it lies, unthought of above at 

the bridge and pathway, 
Still more enclosed from below by 

wood and rocky projection. 
You are shut in, left alone with 

yourself and perfection of 

water. 
Hid on all sides, left alone with 

yourself and the goddess of 

bathing. 
Here, the pride of the plunger, you 

stride the fall and clear it; 
Here, the delight of the bather, you 

roll in beaded sjiarklings. 
Here into pure green depth drop 

down from lofty ledges. 
Hither, a month agone, they had 

come, and discovered it; 

hither 
(Long a design, but long unaccounta- 
bly left unaccomplished). 
Leaving the well-known bridge and 

pathway above to the forest, 
Turning below from the track of 

the carts over stone and 

shingle, 



NATUKE. 



21 



Piercing a wood, and skirting a 
narrow and natural causeway 

Under the rocky wall that hedges 
the bed of the streamlet, 

Rounded a craggy point, and saw on 
a sudden before them 

Slabs of rock, and a tiny beacli, and 
perfection of water, 

Picture-like beauty, seclusion sub- 
lime, and the goddess of bath- 
ing. 

There they bathed, of course, and 
Arthur, the glory of headers, 

Leapt from the ledges with Hope, 
he twenty feet, he tliirty ; 

There, overbold, great Hobbes from 
a ten-foot height descended. 

Prone, as a quadruped, prone with 
hands and feet protending ; 

There in the sparkling champagne, 
ecstatic, they shrieked and 
shouted. 

"Hobbes's gutter," the Piper en- 
titles the spot, profanely, 

Hope "the Glory" would have, 
after Arthur, the glory of 
headers : 

But, for before they departed, in shy 
and fugitive reflex 

Here in the eddies and there did 
the splendor of Jupiter glim- 
mer, 

Adam adjudged it the name of 
Hesperus, star of the even- 
ing. 

Hither, to Hesperus, now, the star 
of evening above them, 

Come in their lonelier walk tlie pupils 
twain and Tutor ; 

Turned from the track of the carts, 
and passing the stone and 
shingle, 

Piercing the wood, and skirting the 
stream by the natural cause- 
way, 

Rounded the craggy point, and now 
at their ease looked up ; and 

Lo, on the rocky ledge, regardant, 
the Gloiy of headers, 

Lo, on the beach, expecting the 
plunge, not cigarless, the 
Piper. — 

And they looked, and wondered, in- 
creduloiis, looking yet once 
more. 

Yes, it was he, on the ledge, bare- 
limbed, an Apollo, down-gaz- 
ing, 



Eying one moment the beauty, the 
life, ere he flung himself in it. 

Eying through eddying green waters 
the green tinting floor under- 
neath them, 

Eying the bead on the surface, the 
bead, like a cloud, rising to it, 

Drinking in, deep in his soul, the 
beautiful hue and the clear- 
ness, 

Ai'thur, the shapely, the brave, the 
unboasting, the glory of 
headers ; 

Yes, and with fragrant weed, by his 
knapsack, spectator and critic. 

Seated on slab by the margin, the 
Piper, the Cloud-compeller. 

Clough. 



SWIMMING. 

How many a time have I 

Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast 
more daring. 

The wave all roughened; with a 
swimmer's stroke 

Flinging the billows back from my 
drenclied hair. 

And laughing from my lip the auda- 
cious brine. 

Which kissed it like a wine-cup, ris- 
ing o'er 

The waves as they arose, and prouder 
still 

The loftier they uplifted me; and 
oft. 

In wantonness of spirit, plunging 
down 

Into their green and glassy gulfs, and 
making 

My way to shells and seaweed, all 
unseen 

By those above, till they waxed fear- 
ful; then 

Returning with my grasp full of such 
tokens 

As showed that I had searched the 
deep; exulting. 

With a far-dashing stroke, and draw- 
ing deep 

The long-suspended breath, again I 
spurned 

The foam which broke around me, 
and pursued 

My track like a sea-bird. — I was a 
boy then. 

Byron. 



22 



PARNASSUS. 



SKATING. 

— In the frosty season, when the 

sun 
Was set, and, visible for many a 

mile. 
The cottage windows througli the 

twilight blazed, 
I heeded not the summons : hajDpy 

time 
It was indeed for all of us ; for me 
It was a time of rapture. Clear and 

loud 
Tlie village clock tolled six. I 

wheel'd about, 
Proud and exulting, like an untired 

horse 
That cares not for its home. All 

shod with steel. 
We hiss'd along the polish'd ice in 

games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the re- 
sounding horn, 
The pack loud-bellowing, and the 

hunted hare. 
So through the darkness and the 

cold we flew. 
And not a voice was idle : with the 

din 
Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud ; 
The leafless trees and every icy 

crag 
Tingled like iron ; while the distant 

hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while 

the stars, 
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and 

in the west 
The orange sky of evening died 

away. 

Kot seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumult- 
uous throng. 
To cut across the image of a star 
That gleam'd upon the ice; and 

oftentimes, 
Wlien we had given our bodies to 

the wind. 
And all the shadowy banks on either 

side 
Came sweeping through the dark- 
ness, spinning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at 
once 



Have I, reclining back upon my 
heels, 

Stopp'd short; yet still the solitary 
cliffs 

Wheel'd by me, even as if the earth 
had roll'd 

With visible motion her diurnal 
round. 

Behind me did they stretch in sol- 
emn train. 

Feebler and feebler, and I stood and 
watch' d 

Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 

WOKDSAVORTH. 

WINTER.— A DIRGE. 

The wintry west extends his blast. 

And hail and rain does blaw; 
Or the stormy north sends driving 
forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw: 
While tumbling brown, the burn 
conies down. 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

" The sweeping blast the sky o'er- 
cast," 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May ; 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my 
soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty 
scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best. 

Because they are thy will. 
Then all I want (oh, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign ! 

Burns. 

SNOW. 

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, 
But fleeter far the pinions of the 

wind. 
Which from Siberia's caves the mon- 
arch freed, 



NATURE. 



23 



And sent him forth, with squadrons 
of his kind, 

And bade the snow tlieir ample backs 
bestride. 
And to the battle ride : 

No pitying voice commands a lialt, 

No courage can repel the dire as- 
sault : 

Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and 
blind, 

^Vliole legions sink, and, in an in- 
stant, find 

Burial and death: look for them, 
and descry, 

Wlien morn returns, beneath the 
clear blue sky, 

A soundless waste, a trackless va- 
cancy ! 

WOKDSWORTH. 



LOST IN THE SNOW. 

TuE snows arise; and, foul and 
fierce. 

All winter drives along the darkened 
air: 

In liis own loose-revolving fields the 
swain 

Disastered stands; sees other hills 
ascend. 

Of unknown joyless brow ; and other 
scenes, 

Of horrid prospect, shag the track- 
less plain : 

Nor finds the river, nor the forest, 
hid 

Beneath the formless wild, but wan- 
ders on 

From hill to dale, still more and 
more astray : 

Impatient flouncing through the 
drifted heaps. 

Stung with the thoughts of home; 
the thoughts of home 

Rush on his nerves, and call their 
vigor forth 

In many a vain attempt. How sinks 
his soul ! 

Wliat black despair, what horror, fills 
his heart ! 

Wlien, for the dusky spot which fan- 
cy feigned 

His tufted cottage rising through the 
snow. 

He meets the roughness of the mid- 
dle waste, 



Far from the track, and bless' d abode 

of man ; 
While round him night resistless 

closes fast. 
And every tempest, howling o'er his 

head, 
Renders the savage wilderness more 

wild. 
Then throng the busy shapes into 

his mind, 
Of covered pits unfathomably 

. deep, 
A dire descent! beyond the power 

of frost; 
Of faithless bogs; of precipices 

huge. 
Smoothed up with snow; and what 

is land unknown, 
What water, of the still unfrozen 

spring. 
In the loose marsh or solitary lake. 
Where the fresh fountain from the 

bottom boils. 
These check his fearful steps; and 

down he sinks 
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless 

drift, 
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of 

death ; 
Mixed with the tender anguish Na- 
ture shoots 
Through the wrung bosom of the 

dying man, 
His wife, his children, and his friends 

unseen. 
In vain for him th' officious wife pre- 
pares . 
The fire fair-blazing, and the vest- 
ment warm ; 
In vain his little children, peeping 

out 
Into the mingling storm, demand 

their sire, 
With tears of artless innocence. 

Alas! 
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he 

behold ; 
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On 

every nerve 
The deadly Winter seizes ; shuts up 

sense, 
And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping 

cold. 
Lays him along the snows a stiffened 

corse. 
Stretched out, and bleaching in the 

northern blast. 

Thomson. 



24 



PARNASSUS. 



A WIISTTER NIGHT. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless 

bow'r; 
Wlien Phoebus gies a short-liv'd 
glow'r 

Far south the lift, 
Dim dark'ning thro' the flaky 
show'r, 

Or whirliu' drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples 

rocked. 
Poor labor sweet in sleep was 

locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up- 
chocked. 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet hocked, 
Down headlong hurl. 

Listening, the doors an' winnocks 

rattle. 
I thought me on the ourie cattle. 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing 
sprattle 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chitt'ring 
wing, 

An' close thy e'e ? 

E'en you on murd'ring errands 

toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes ex- 
iled. 
The blood-stained roost, and sheep- 
cote spoiled. 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 
Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark mufHed, viewed the dreary 

plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive 
train, 

Rose in my soul. 
While on my ear this plaintive 
sti'ain, 

Slow, solemn, stole : — 



"O ye! who, sunk in beds of 
down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves 

create. 
Think for a moment on his wretched 
fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite 
disown ! 
Ill satisfied keen Nature's clamorous 
call. 
Stretched on his straw, he lays 
himself to sleep. 
While thro' the ragged roof and 
chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the 
drifty heap!" 



I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hailed the morning with a 
cheer, — 
A cottage-rousing craw ! 

Burns. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD 
YEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter 
snow, 
And the winter winds are weari- 
ly sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly, and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year, you mvist not die ; 
You came to us so readily. 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 
He will not see the dawn of day. 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true 

true-love, 
And the New-year will take 'em 
away. 
Old year, you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with 

us. 
Such joy as you have seen with 

us. 
Old year, you shall not go. 

He frothed his bumpers to the 
brim; 



NATURE. 



25 



A jollier year we shall not see. 

But though his eyes are waxing dim, 

And though his foes speak ill of him, 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I've half a mind to die with you. 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest ; 
But all his merry quips are o'er: 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post- 
haste ; 
But he'll be dead before. 
Every one for his own. 
The night is starry and cold, my 

friend. 
And the New-year blithe and 

bold, my friend. 
Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes! over the 

snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro; 
The cricket chirps; the light burns 

low: 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 
Old year, we'll dearly rue for 

you: 
What is it we can do for you ? 
Speak out before' you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from tlie corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone. 
And waiteth at tlie door. 
There's a new foot on the floor, 

my friend. 
And a new face at the door, my 

friend, 
A new face at the door. 

Tennyson. 



THE RIVULET. 

And I shall sleep ; and on thy side. 
As ages after ages glide. 
Children their early sports shall try, 
And pass to hoary age, and die. 
But thou, unchanged from year to 

year, 
Gayly shalt play and glitter here : 



Amid young flowers and tender 

grass 
Thy endless infancy shalt pass ; 
And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
Shalt mock the fading race of men. 
Bryant. 



THE GAEDEN. 

How vainly men themselves amaze, 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays. 
And their incessant labors see 
Crowned from some single herb or 

tree, 
Wliose short and narrow-verged 

shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
While all the flowers and trees do 

close. 
To weave the garlands of repose ! 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee 
here. 
And Innocence, thy sister dear? 
Mistaken long, I sought you tlien 
In busy companies of men. 
Your sacred plants, if here below. 
Only among the plants will grow : 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 
So amorous as this lovely green. 
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 
Cut in these trees their mistress' 

name : 
Little, alas ! they know or heed 
How far these beauties her exceed ! 
Fair trees! where'er your barks I 

wound, 
No name shall but your own be 

found. 

When we have run our passion's 
heat, 
Love hither makes his best retreat. 
The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
Still in a tree did end their race ; 
Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
Only that she might laurel grow ; 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

Wliat wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drojj about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 



26 



PARNASSUS. 



The nectarine, and curious peijch, 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbhng on melons, as I pass, 
Insnared with flowers, I fall on 
grass. 

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure 

less, 
Withdraws into its happiness, — 
The mind, that ocean where each 

kind 
Does straight its own resemblance 

find. 
Yet it creates, transcending these, 
Far other worlds and other seas. 
Annihilating all that's made 
To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
Casting the body's vest aside. 
My soul into the boughs does glide : 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then whets and claps its silver 

wings. 
And, till prepared for longer flight. 
Waves in its plumes the various 
light. 

Such was that happy garden-state. 
While man there walked without a 

mate: 
After a place so pure and sweet, 
What other help could yet be meet ! 
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there : 
Two paradises are in one. 
To live in paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new, 
Wliere, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run, 
And, as it works, the industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we ! 
How could such sweet and whole- 
some hours 
Be reckoned but with herbs and 
flowers ? 

Marvell. 



LACHIN Y GAIR. 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens 
of roses ! 
In you let the minions of luxury 
I'ove ; 



Restore me the rocks where the 
snowflake reposes. 
For still they are sacred to freedom 
and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy 
mountains, 
Round their white summits though 
elements war. 
Though cataracts foam, 'stead of 
smooth-flowing fountains, 
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch 
na Gair. 

Ah! there my yovmg footsteps in 
infancy wandered ; 
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak 
was the plaid ; 
On chieftains long perished, my 
memory pondered. 
As daily I strode through the pine- 
covered glade ; 
I sought not my home till the day's 
dying glory 
Gave place to the rays of the bright 
polar star ; 
For Fancy was cheered by traditional 
story 
Disclosed by the natives of dark 
Loch na Gair, 

"Shades of the dead! have I not 
heard your voices 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of 
the gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 
And rides on the wind o'er his 
own Highland vale : 
Round Loch na Gair, while the 
stormy mist gathers. 
Winter presides in his cold icy 
car; 
Clouds there encircle the forms of 
my fathers : 
They dwell in the tempests of dark 
Loch na Gair. 

"Ill-starred, though brave, did no 
visions foreboding 
Tell you that Fate had forsaken 
your cause?" 
All ! were you destined to die at Cul- 
loden, 
Victory crowned not your fall with 
applause ; 
Still were you happy ; in death's early 
slumber 
You rest with your clau, in the 
caves of Braemar, 



NATURE. 



27 



The pibroch resounds to the piper's 
loud number. 
Tour deeds on the echoes of dark 
Loch na Gair. 

Years have rolled on, Loch na Gair, 
since I left you ; 
Years must elapse ere I tread you 
again ; 
Nature of verdure and flowers has 
bereft you, 
Yet still are you dearer than 
Albion's plain: 
England ! thy beauties are tame and 
domestic 
To one who has roved on the 
mountains afar ; 
Oh for the crags that are wild and 
majestic, 
The steep-frowning glories of dark 
Loch na Gair ! 

Bykon. 



THE BOY-POET. 

TiiEKE was a boy ; ye knew him well, 
ye cliffs 

And islands of Winander! Many a 
time, 

At evening, when the earliest stars 
began 

To move along the edges of the 
hills, 

Rising or setting, would he stand 
alone, 

Beneath the trees, or by the glim- 
mering lake ; 

And there, with fingers Interwoven, 
both hands 

Pressed closely palm to palm and to 
his mouth 

Uplifted, he, as through an instru- 
ment, 

Blew mimic hootings to the silent 
owls, 

That they might answer him. And 
they would shout 

Across the watery vale, and shout 
again. 

Responsive to his call, with quiver- 
ing peals. 

And long halloos and screams, and 
echoes loud 

Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse 
wild 

Of mirth and jocund din! And 
when it chanced 



That pauses of deep silence mocked 

his skill. 
Then, sometimes, in that silence, 

while he hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild 

surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the 

voice 
Of mountain torrents ; or the visible 

scene 
"Would enter unawares into his mind 
With all its solemn imageiy, its 

rocks, 
Its woods, and that uncertain heav- 
en, received 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
Wordsworth. 

THE EARTH-SPIEIT. 

I HAVE woven shrouds of air 
In a loom of hurrying light. 
For the trees which blossoms 

bear, 
And gilded them with sheets of 

bright ; 
I fall upon the grass like love's first 

kiss; 
I make the golden flies and their 

fine bliss ; 
I paint the hedgerows in the lane, 
And clover white and red the path- 
ways bear; 
I laugh aloud in sudden gusts of 

rain 
To see the ocean lash himself in 

air; 
I throw smooth shells and weeds 

along the beach. 
And pour the curling waves far o'er 

the glossy reach ; 
Swing birds' nests in the elms, and 

shake cool moss 
Along the aged beams, and hide their 

loss. 
The very broad rough stones I glad- 
den too ; 
Some willing seeds I drop along 

their sides. 
Nourish the generous plant with 

freshening dew, 
Till there where all was waste, true 

joy abides. 
The peaks of aged mountains, with 

my care 
Smile in the red of glowing morn 

elate ; 



28 



PARNASSUS. 



I bind the caverns of the sea with 

hair, 
Glossy, and long, and rich as kings' 

estate ; 
I polish the green ice, and gleam 

the wall 
With the white frost, and leaf the 

brown trees tall. 

Channing. 

THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 

Within the mind strong fancies 

work, 
A deep delight the bosom thrills, 
Oft as I pass along the fork 
Of these fi'aternal hills, 
Wliere, save the rugged road, we 

. find 
No appanage of human kind. 
Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock 
Seem not his handiwork to mock 
By something cognizably shaped ; 
Mockery, or model roughly hewn. 
And left as if by earthquake strewn, 
Or from the flood escaped : 
Altars for Druid service fit ; 
(But where no fire was ever lit, 
Unless the glow-worm to the skies 
Thence offer nightly sacrifice,) 
Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; 
Green moss-grown tower; or hoary 

tent ; 
Tents of a camp that never shall be 

raised — 
On which four thousand years have 

gazed ! 

II. 

Ye ploughshares sparkling on the 

slopes ! 
Ye snow-white lambs that trip 
Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 
Of restless ownership ! 
Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 
To feed the insatiate prodigal ! 
Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and 

fields, 
All that the fertile valley shields ; 
Wages of folly, baits of crime, 
Of life's uneasy game the stake. 
Playthings that keep the eyes awake 
Of drowsy, dotard Time, — 
O care ! O guilt ! O vales and 

l^lains. 
Here, 'mid his own unvexed do- 
mains, 



A genius dwells, that can subdue 
At once all memory of You, — 
Most potent when mists veil the 

sky,— 
Mists that distort and magnify ; 
While the coarse rushes to the 

sweeping breeze 
Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 

III. 

List to those shriller notes! that 

march 
Perchance was on the blast. 
When, through this height's inverted 

arch, 
Rome's earliest legion passed! 
They saw, adventurously impelled, 
And older eyes than theirs beheld. 
This block, and yon, whose church- 
like frame 
Gives to this savage pass its name. 
Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
Thy daring in a vapory bourn. 
Not seldom may the hour return 
Wlien thou shalt be my guide. 

WOKDSWOKTH, 



/ SOLITUDE. \ 

There is a pleasure in the pathless 
woods ; 

There is a rapture on the lonely 
shore ; 

There is society where none in- 
trudes. 

By the deep sea, and music in its 
roar : 

I love not man the less, but nature 
more, 

From these our interviews, in which 
I steal 

From all I may be, or have been 
before. 

To mingle with the universe, and 
feel 

What I can ne'er express, yet can- 
not all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue 

ocean, roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee 

in vain : 
Man marks the earth with ruin : his 

control 
Stops with the shore: upon the 

watery plain 



NATUEE. 



29 



The wrecks are all thy deed, nor 
doth remain 

A shadow of man's ravage, save his 
own, 

Wlien, for a moment, like a drop of 
rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bub- 
bling groan, 

Without a grave, un knelled, uncof- 
fined, and unknown. 

Byron : Childe Harold. 



TINTERN ABBEY. 

I HAVE learned 

To look on Nature, not as in the 
hour 

Of thoughtless youth, but hearing 
oftentimes 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of 
ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I 
have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with 
the joy 

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sub- 
lime 

Of something far more deeply inter- 
fused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of set- 
ting suns. 

And the round ocean, and the living 
air. 

And the blue sky, and in the mind 
of man, — 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all 
thought. 

And rolls through all things. There- 
fore am I still 

A lover of the meadows, and the 
woods, 

And mountains, and of all that we 
behold 

From this green earth; of all the 
mighty world 

Of eye and ear, both what they half 
create, 

And what perceive ; well pleased to 
recognize 

In Nature and the language of the 
sense 

The anchor of my purest thoughts. 

WOKDSWORTH. 



FLOWERS. 

O Proserpina, 
For the flowers now, that frighted, 

thou let'st fall 
From Dis's wagon ! daffodils, 
That come before the swallow dares, 

and take 
The winds of March with beauty; 

violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's 

eyes. 
Or Cytherea's breath; pale prim- 
roses. 
That die unmarried, ere they can 

behold 
Bright PlKKbus in his strength, a 

malady 
Most incident to maids ; bold ox-lips, 

and 
The crown-imperial; lilies of all 

kinds. 
The flower-de-luce being one! O, 

these I lack, 
To make you garlands of; and my 

sweet friend, 
To strew him o'er and o'er ! 

Shakspeare: Winter^ s Tale. 



THE SUNFLOWER. 

Ah, sunflower ! weary of time. 
Who countest the steps of the sun, 
Seeking after that sweet golden 

clime, 
Where the traveller's journey is 

done ; 

Where the youth pined away with 

desire, 
And the pale virgin shrouded in 

snow. 
Arise from their graves, and aspire 
Where my sunflower wishes to go. 
WiLLiAJi Blake. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the 

saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 

and meadows brown and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, 

the withered leaves lie dead : 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and 

to the rabbit's tread. 



30 



PAENASSUS. 



The robin and the wren are flown, 
and from the shrubs the jay ; 

And from the wood-top calls the 
crow, through all the gloomy 
day. 

Wliere are the flowers, the fair 

young flowers, that lately 

sprang and stood, 
In brighter light and softer airs, a 

beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas! they all are in their graves: 

the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with 

the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie; 

but the cold November rain 
Calls not, from out the gloomy 

earth, the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, 

they perished long ago ; 
And the brier-rose and the orchis 

died amid the summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and 

the aster in the wood. 
And the yellow sunflower by the 

brook, in autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold 

heaven, as falls the plague on 

men. 
And the brightness of their smile 

was gone from upland, glade, 

and glen. 

And now when comes the calm mild 

day, as still such days will 

come. 
To call the squirrel and the bee from 

out their winter home ; 
Wlien the sound of dropping nuts is 

heard, though all the trees are 

still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the 

waters of the rill, — 
The south wind searches for the 

flowers whose fragrance late 

he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood 

and by the stream no more. 
And then I think of one who in her 

youthful beauty died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew 

up, and faded by my side : 
In the cold moist earth we laid her 

when the forest cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely 

should have a life so brief; 



Yet not unmeet it was, that one, 
like that young friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful, should 
perish with the flowers. 

Bryant. 

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 

Thou blossom bright with autumn 

dew. 
And colored with the heaven's own 

blue. 
That openest, when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs 

unseen. 
Or columbines, in purple drest. 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden 

nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone. 

When woods are bare, and birds are 
flown. 

And frosts and shortening days por- 
tend 

The aged year is near its end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the 

Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to 

me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart. 
May look to heaven as I depart. 

Bryant. 

TREES. 

A SHADiE grove not far away they 
spied. 

That promist ayde the tempest to 
withstand ; 

Whose loftie trees, yclad with som- 
mers pride. 

Did spred so broad, that heaven's 
light did hide, 

Not perceable with power of any 
Starr ; 

And all within were pathes ana al- 
leles wide, 



NATURE. 



31 



With footing wornc, and leading in- 
ward far : 

Faire harbour tliat them seems; so 
in they entred are. 

And forth they passe, with pleasure 

forward led, 
Joying to heare the birdes' sweete 

harmony. 
Which tlierein shrouded from the 

tempest dred, 
Seemed in their song to scorne the 

cruell sky. 
Much can they praise the trees so 

straight and high. 
The sayiing pine; tlie cedar proud 

and tall ; 
The vine-propp elme ; the poplar nev- 
er dry ; 
The builder oake, sole king of for- 

rests all ; 
The aspine good for staves ; the cy- 

presse f unerall ; 

The laurell meed of mightie con- 
querours 

And poets sage; the fir that weep- 
eth still ; 

The willow, worne of forlorne para- 
mours ; 

The yew, obedient to the bender's 
will; 

The birch for shaf tes ; the sallow for 
the mill ; 

The mirrhe sweet-bleeding in the 
bitter wound ; 

Tlie warlike beech; the ash for 
nothing ill ; 

The fruitful olive ; and the platane 
round ; 

The carver holme; the maple, sel- 
dom inward sound. 

Spenser. 



YEW-TKEES. 

TnERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lor- 

ton Vale, 
Wbich to this day stands single in 

the midst 
Of its own darkness, as it stood of 

yore : 
Not loath to furnish weapons for the 

bands 



Of Umfraville or Percy ere they 
marched 

To Scotland's heaths; or those that 
crossed the sea. 

And drew their sounding bows at 
Azincour ; 

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poic- 
tiers. 

Of vast circumference and gloom 
profound 

This solitary Tree! a living thing 

Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 

Of form and aspect too magnifi- 
cent 

To be destroyed. But worthier still 
of note 

Are those fraternal Four of Borrow- 
dale. 

Joined in one solemn and capacious 
grove ; 

Huge trunks! and each particular 
trunk a growth 

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 

Up-coiling, and inveterately con- 
volved ; 

Nor uninformed with fantasy, and 
looks 

That threaten the profane ; a pillared 
shade. 

Upon whose grassless floor of red- 
brown hue, 

By sheddiugs from the pining um- 
brage tinged 

Perennially; beneath whose sable 
roof 

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, 
decked 

With unrejoicing berries, ghostly 
shapes 

May meet at noontide; Fear, and 
trembling Hope, 

Silence, and Foresight; Death the 
Skeleton, 

And Time the Shadow ; there to cele- 
brate, 

As in a natural temple scattered 
o'er 

With altars undisturbed of mossy 
stone. 

United worship; or in mute re- 
pose 

To lie, and listen to the mountain 
flood 

Munnuring from Glaramara's in- 
most caves. 

WOBDSWORTH. 



32 



PARNASSUS. 



THE OSMUNDA EEGALIS. 

Often, trifling with a privilege 
Alike indulged to all, we paused, one 

now, 
And now the other, to jjoint out, 

perchance 
To pluck, some flower or water-weed 

too fair 
Either to be divided from the place 
On which it grew, or to be left alone 
To its own beauty. Many such there 

are, 
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly 

that tall fern. 
So stately, of the queen Osmunda 

named ; 
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 
On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by 

the side 
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the 

Mere, 
Sole-sitting by the shores of old ro- 
mance. 

Wordsworth. 



THE BARBERRY-BUSH. 

The bush that has most briers and 

bitter fruit: 
Wait till the frost has turned its 

green leaves red. 
Its sweetened berries will thy palate 

suit. 
And thou mayst find e'en there a 

homely bread. 
Upon the hills of Salem scattered 

wide. 
Their yellow blossoms gain the eye 

in spring ; 
And, straggling e'en upon the turn- 
pike's side. 
Their ripened branches to your hand 

they bring. 
I've plucked them oft in boyhood's 

early hour, 
That then I gave such name, and 

thought it true ; 
^ut now I know that other fruit as 

sour 
Grows on what now thou callest me 

and you: 
Yet Will thou wait, the autumn that 

I see 
Will sweeter taste than these red 

berries be, 

Jones Very. 



TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. 

Sweet-scented flower! who art 
wont to bloom 
On January's front severe, 
And o'er the wintry deseit drear 
To waft thy waste perfume ! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay 
now, 
And I will bind thee round my brow ; 
And as I twine the mournful 
wreath, 
I'll weave a melancholy song, 

And sweet the strain shall be, and 
long, — 
The melody of death. 

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to 
dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely 
tomb. 
And throw across the desert gloom 

A sweet decaying smell. 
Come, press my lips, and lie with 

me 
Beneath the lowly alder-tree. 

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep. 
And not a care shall dare in- 
trude 
To break the marble solitude, 
So peaceful and so deep. 

And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
And, sailing on the gusty breeze. 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower! that requiem wild 

is mine; 
It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone 

spot, 
Wliere as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my 
ashes shed. 

H. K. White. 



THE PRIMROSE. 

Ask me why I send you here 
This sweet Infanta of the yeere ? 

Ask me why I send to you 
This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with 
dew ? 
I will whisper to your eares, 
The sweets of love are mixt with 
tears. 



NATURE. 



33 



Ask me why this flower does show 
So yellow-greeu and sickly too? 

Ask me why the stallc is weak 
And bending, yet it doth not break? 

I will answer, these discover 
What faiuting hopes are in a lover. 
Hebrick. 



TO DAFFODILLS. 

Faire Daffodills, we weep to see 

You haste away so soone ; 
As yet the early rising sun 

Has not attain' d his noone. 
Stay, stay, 

Untill the hasting day 

Has run 

But to the even-song ; 
And, having pray'd together, we 

Will goe with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you. 

We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As*you, or any thing. 

We die 
As your hours doe, and drie 

Away, 
Like to the smnmer's raine; 
Or as the pearles of morning's dew, 
Ne'er to be found againe. 

Herrick. 



DAFFODILS, 

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and 

hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils ; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 
Fluttering, dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
Tossing their heads in sprightly 
dance. 

The waves beside them danced ; but 

they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : 
3 



A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company : 
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had 
brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure 

fills. 
And dances with the daffodils. 

Wordsworth. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past. 
But you may stay yet here a while 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What, were ye born to be 
An hour or half's delight. 
And so to bid good-night ? 

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where w« 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave: 

And after they have shown their 
pride 
L^d'SSB 




JAN 22 1897 

\ • . LIBEKTY. >. 

\<<^ '■•■"? 

j^^i^f^ipan, diving ^0»^impulses from 

Keach the caged lark, within a town 

abode. 
From his poor inch or two of daisied 

sod? 
Oh, yield him back his privilege ! No 

sea 
Swells like the bosom of a man set 

free: 
A wilderness is rich with liberty. 



34 



PARNASSUS. 



Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die 

or keep 
Your independence in the fathomless 

deep ! 
Spread, tiny Nautilus, the living sail ; 
Dive, at thy choice, or brave the 

freshening gale ! 
If unreproved the ambitious eagle 

mount 
Sunward to seek the daylight in its 

fount, 
Bays, gulfs, and ocean's Indian 

width, shall be, 
Till the world perishes, a field for 

thee ! 

WOBDSWOKTH. 



NIGHT. 

Come, seeling night, 

Skarf up the tender eye of pitiful 
day. 

And, with thy bloody and invisible 
hand, 

Cancel, and tear to pieces, that great 
bond 

Which keeps me pale ! — Light thick- 
ens ; and the crow 

Makes wing to the rooky wood. 

Shakspeake: Macbeth. 



THE DIAMOND. 

Stak of the flowers, and flower of the 

stars. 
And earth of the earth, art thou ! 
And darkness hath battles, and light 

hath wars 
That pass in thy beautiful brow. 

The eye of the ground thus was 

planted by heaven. 
And the dust was new wed to the 

sun. 
And the monarch went forth, and 

the earth-star was given. 
That should back to the heaven-star 

run. 

So in all things it is : the first origin 
lives, 

And loves his life out to his flock ; 

And in dust, and in matter, and na- 
ture, lie gives 

The spirit's last spark to the rock. 

J. J. G. Wilkinson. 



SEPTEMBER. 

1819. 

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove 
Albeit uninspired by love. 
By love untaught to ring. 
May well afford to mortal ear 
An impulse more profoundly dear 
Than music of the spring. 



I 



But list! though winter's storms be 

nigh, 
Unchecked is that soft harmony : 
There lives Who can provide 
For all his creatures ; and in him, 
Even like the radiant Seraphim, 
These Choristers confide. 

WOKDSWOBTH. 



NIGHTINGALE. 

Oft when, returning with her loaded 

bill, 
Th' astonish' d mother finds a vacant 

nest. 
By the hard hand of unrelenting 

clown 
Robb'd ; to the ground the vain pro- 
vision falls ; 
Her pinions ruffle, and low-drooping 

scarce 
Can bear the mourner to the poplar 

shade ; 
Where, all abandoned to despair, she 

sings 
Her sorrows thro' the night ; and on 

the bough 
Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall 
Takes up again her lamentable strain 
Of winding woe, till, wide around, 

the woods 
Sigh to her song, and with her wail 

resound. 

Thomson. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Thou wast not born for death, im- 
mortal bird ! 
No hungry generations tread thee 
down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night 
was heard 
In ancient days by emperor and 
clown, — 



NATURE. 



35 



Perhaps the selfsame song that found 
a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, 
when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the aHen 
corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening 
on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands 
forlorn. 

Keats. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

As it fell upon a day 
In the merry month of M.Sf, 
Sitting in a pleasant shade 
Sviiich a grove of myrtles made, 
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, 
Trees did grow, and plants did 

spring, 
Every thing did banish moan, 
Save the nightingale alone. 
She, poor bird, as all forlorn. 
Leaned her breast against a thorn, 
And there sung the dolef ulest ditty, 
That to hear it was great pity. 
Fie, fie, fie ! now would she cry ; 
Tereu, tereu, by and by : 
That to hear her so complain 
Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 
For her griefs so lively shown 
Made me think upon mine own. 
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in 

vain, 
None takes pity on thy pain : 
Senseless trees, they cannot hear 

thee, 
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer 

thee ; 
King Pandiva, he is dead. 
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : 
All thy fellow-birds do sing 
Careless of thy sorrowing ; 
Even so, poor bird, like thee, 
None alive will pity me. 

R. Baenefield. 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S SONG. 

Round my own pretty rose I have 

hovered all day, 
I have seen its sweet leaves one by 

one fall away : 



They are gone, they are gone ; but I 

go not with them, 
I linger to weep o'er its desolate 

stem. 

They say if I rove to the south I 

shall meet 
With hundreds of roses more fair 

and more sweet ; 
But my heart, when I'm tempted to 

wander, replies, 
Here my first love, my last love, my 

only love lies. 

When the last leaf is withered, and 
falls to the earth, 

The false one to southerly climes 
may fly forth ; 

But truth cannot fly from his sor- 
rows : he dies. 

Where his first love, his last love, his 
only love lies. 

T. H. Ba^yly. 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH- 
SONG. 

MouKNFUXLY, sing mournfully, 

And die away my heart ! 
The rose, the glorious rose, is gone, 

And I, too, will depart. 

The skies have lost their splendor, 
The waters changed their tone. 

And wherefore, in the faded world, 
Should music linger on ? 

Where is the golden sunshine, 
And where the flower-cup's glow? 

And where the joy of the dancing 
leaves, 
And the fountain's laughing flow? 

Tell of the brightness parted. 
Thou bee, thou lamb at play ! 

Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth ! 
Are ye, too, passed away ? 

With sunshine, with sweet odor. 
With every precious thing, 

Upon the last warm southern breeze, 
My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger 

Wlien the days of hope are past, 
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 

To wait the rushing blast. 



36 



PARNASSUS. 



Triumphantly, triumphantly, 

Sing to the woods, I go ! 
For me, perchance, in other lands 

The glorious rose may blow. 

No more, no more, sing mournfully ! 

Swell high, then break, my heart ! 
The rose, the royal rose, is gone, 

And I, too, will depart. 

Hemans. 

THE BIRD. 

" Beedie, Birdie, will you, pet? 
Summer is far and far away yet. 
You'll have silken quilts and a vel- 
vet bed, 
And a pillow of satin for your head." 

" I'd rather sleep in the ivy wall : 
No rain comes through, though I 

hear it fall ; 
The sun peeps gay at dawn of day. 
And I sing, and wing away, away ! " 

"O Birdie, Birdie, will you, pet? 
Diamond stones and amber and jet 
We'll string on a necklace fair and fine, 
To please this pretty bird of mine." 

"Oh! thanks for diamonds, and 

thanks for jet ; 
But here is something daintier yet, — 
A feather necklace, round and round. 
That I would not sell for a thousand 

pound!" 

"O Birdie, Birdie, won't you, pet? 
We'll buy you a dish of silver fret, 
A golden cup and an ivory seat. 
And carpets soft beneath your feet." 

" Can running water be drunk from 

gold? 
Can a silver dish the forest hold ? 
A rocking twig is the finest chair. 
And the softest paths lie through the 

air: 
Good-by, good-by, to my lady fair." 
Allingham. 

TO THE SKY-LARK. 

Ethereal, minstrel, pilgrim of the 

sky! 
Dost thou despise the earth where 

cares abound ? 



Or, while the wings aspire, are heart 

and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy 

ground ? — 
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into 

at will. 
Those quivering wings composed, 

that music still ! 

To the last point of vision, and be- 
yond. 

Mount, daring warbler ! That love- 
prompted strain, 

'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing 
bond. 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the 
plain ; 

Yet mighlfst thou seem, proud privi- 
lege ! to sing 

All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady 
wood; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine, 

Wlience thou dost pour upon the 
world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more di- 
vine ; 

Type of the wise, who soar, but never 
roam, 

True to the kindred points of heaven 
and home. 

Wordsworth. 



TO A SKY-LARK. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears ii 
heeded not. 

Shelley. 



BREEDING LARK. 

I MUST go furnish up 

A nest I have begun. 

And will return and bring ye meat, 

As soon as it is done. 

Then up she clambe the clouds 
With such a lusty lay, 
That it rejoiced her younglings' heart, 
As in their nest they lay. 

Arthur Boar. 



NATURE. 



37 



FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE. 

RAM15LING along the marshes, 
On the bank of the Assabet, 
Sounding myself as to how it went, 
Praying that I might not forget, 
And all uncertain 
Whether I was in the right, 
Toiling to lift Time's curtain, 
And if I burnt the strongest light ; 
Suddenly, 
High in the air, 
I heard the travelled geese 
Their overture prepare. 

Stirred above the patent ball. 
The wild geese flew. 
Nor near so wild as that doth me be- 
fall. 
Or, swollen Wisdom, you. 

In the front there fetched a leader. 
Him beliind the line spread out, 
And waved about, 
As it was near night. 
When these air-pilots stop their 
flight. 

Cruising off the shoal dominion 

Where we sit, 

Depending not on their opinion, 

Nor hi\'ing sops of wit ; 

Geographical in tact. 

Naming not a pond or river. 

Pulled with twilight down in fact. 

In tlie reeds to quack and quiver. 

There they go. 

Spectators at the play below. 

Southward in a row. 

Cannot land and map the stars 
The indifferent geese, 
Nor taste the sweetmeats in odd jars, 
Nor speculate and freeze ; 
Raicid weasands need be well. 
Feathers glossy, quills in order. 
Starts this train, yet rings no bell; 
Steam is raised without recorder. 

"Up, my feathered fowl, all," — 

Saith the goose commander, 

" Brighten your bills, and flirt your 

pinions, 
My toes are nipped, — let us render 
Ourselves in soft Guatemala, 
Or suck puddles in Campeachy, 
Spitzbergen-cake cuts very frosty, 
And the tipple is not leechy. 



"Let's brush loose for any creek. 
There lurk fish and fly. 
Condiments to fat the weak. 
Inundate the pie. 
Flutter not about a place, 
Ye concomitants of space!" 

Mute the listening nations stand 

On that dark receding land ; 

How faint their villages and towns. 

Scattered on the misty downs ! 

A meeting-house 

Appears no bigger than a mouse. 

How long? 

Never is a question asked. 
While a throat can lift the song, 
Or a flapping wing be tasked. 

All the grandmothers about 
Hear the orators of Heaven, 
Then put on their woollens stout, 
And cower o'er the hearth at even; 
And the children stare at the sky, 
And laugh to see the long black line 
so high ! 

Then once more I heard them say, — 
" ' Tis a smooth, delightful road, 
Difficult to lose the way. 
And a trifle for a load. 

" 'Twas our forte to pass for this. 
Proper sack of sense to bori-ow, 
Wings and legs, and bills that clat- 
ter. 
And the horizon of To-morrow." 

Channing. 



TO A WATEPvFOWL. 

Whither, 'midst falling dew. 
While glow the heavens with the last 

steps of day ? 
Far through their rosy depths dost 
thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do 

thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson 
sky, 
Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 



38 



PARNASSUS. 



Or where the rocking billows rise 
aild sink 
On the chafed ocean-side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless 

coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned 
At that far height the cold, thin 

atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome 
land, 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end. 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, 

and rest. 
And scream among thy fellows : 
reeds shall bend. 
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet 

on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou 
hast given. 
And shall not soon depart. 

He who, fi'om zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky 

thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread 
alone 
Will lead my steps aright. 

Bkyant. 

THE EAGLE. 

He clasps the crag with hookfed 

hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands. 
Ringed with the azure world, he 

stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls : 
He watches from his mountain walls. 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

Tennyson. 

OCEAN. 

Gkeat Ocean! strongest of crea- 
tion's sons. 
Unconquerable, unreposed, untired, 



That rolled the wild, profound, eter- 
nal bass 

In nature's anthem, and made mu- 
sic such 

As pleased the ear of God ! original, 

Unmarred, imf aded work of Deity ! 

And unburlesqued by mortal's puny 
skill ; 

From age to age enduring, and un- 
changed, 

Majestical, inimitable, vast, 

Loud uttering satire, day and night, 
on each 

Succeeding race, and little pompous 
work 

Of man ; unf alien, religious, holy sea ! 

Thou bowedst thy glorious head to 
none, fearedst none, 

Heardst none, to none didst honor, 
but to God 

Thy Maker, only worthy to receive 

Thy great obeisance. 

POLLOK. 



OCEAN. 

See living vales by living waters 

blessed. 
Their wealth see earth's dark caverns 

yield. 
See Ocean roll in glory dressed. 
For all a treasure, and round all a 

shield. 

Chakles Sprague. 



SEA SONG. 

Our boat to the waves go free, 
By the bending tide, where the 

curled wave breaks, 
Like the track of the wind on the 
white snowflakes : 
Away, away! 'Tis a path o'er the sea. 

Blasts may rave, — spread the sail, 
For our spirits can wrest the power 

from the wind. 
And the gray clouds yield to the 
sunny mind. 
Fear not we the whirl of the gale. 



Waves on the beach, and the wild 
sea-foam, 

With a leap, and a dash, and a sud- 
den cheer, 



NATURE. 



39 



Where the seaweed makes its bend- 
ing liomc, 
And the sea-birds swim on tlie crests 
so clear, 
Wave after wave, they are curling 

o'er. 
While the white sand dazzles along 
the shore. 

Chaining. 



SEA SONG. 

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA, 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast. 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

There's tempest in yonhornfed moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark, the music, mariners ! 

The wind is wakening loud. 
The wind is wakening loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashes free ; 
The hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

Allan Cunningham. 



SEA. 

O'ek the glad waters of the dark- 
blue sea, 

Our thoughts as boundless, and our 
souls as free. 

Far as the breeze can bear, the bil- 
lows foam, 

Survey our empire, and behold our 
home! 

These are our realms, no limits to 
their sway ; 

Our flag the sceptre all who meet 
obey. 

Ours the wild life in tumult still to 
range 

From toil to rest, and joy in every 
change. 

Oh ! who can tell ? not thou, luxuri- 
ous slave ! 

Whose soul would sicken o'er the 
heaving wave ; 



Not thou, vain lord of wantonness 
and ease ! 

Wliom slumber soothes not, pleasure 
cannot please, — 

Oh! who can tell, save he whose 
heart hath tried, 

And danced in triumph o'er the wa- 
ters wide. 

The exulting sense, the pulse's mad- 
dening play, 

That thrills the wanderer of that 
trackless way? 

Bykon: Corsair. 



THE CORAL GROVE. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove, 
Where the purple mullet and gold- 
fish rove ; 
Wliere the sea-flower spreads its 

leaves of blue. 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty 

shine 
Far down in the green and glassy 

brine. 
The floor is of sand, like the moun- 
tain drift. 
And the pearl-shells spangle the 

flinty snow : 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
Their boughs, where the tides and 

billows flow ; 
The water is calm and still below. 
For the winds and the waves are 

absent there, 
And the sands are bright as the stars 

that glow 
In the motionless fields of upper air : 
There with its waving blade of 

green. 
The sea-flag streams through the 

silent water, 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is 

seen 
To blush like a banner bathed in 

slaughter : 
There with a light and easy motion 
The fan coral sweeps through the 

clear deep sea ; 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of 

ocean 
Are bending like corn on the upland 

lea; 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
Is sporting amid those bowers of 

stone. 



40 



PARNASSUS. 



And is safe, when the wrathful spirit 

of storms 
Has made the top of the waves his 

own: 
And when the ship from his fury 

flies, 
When the myriad voices of ocean 

roar, 
When the wind-god frowns in the 

murky skies, 
And demons are waiting the wreck 

on the shore. 
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, 
The purple mullet and gold-fish 

rove. 
Where the waters murmur tran- 
quilly 
Through the bending twigs of the 

coral grove. 

Percival. 



INSCRIPTION ON A SEA 
SHELL. 

Pleased we remember our august 

abodes. 
And murmur as the ocean murmurs 
. there. 

Landor. 



OUT AND INWARD BOUND. 

All things that are, 

Are with more spirit chased than 
enjoy' d. 

How like a younker or a prodigal 

The scarfed bark puts from her 
native bay, 

Hugg'd and embraced by the strum- 
pet wind! 

How like the prodigal doth she re- 
turn 

With over-weather'd ribs, and ragged 
sails. 

Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the 
strumpet wind ! 

Shakspeare. 
Merchant of Venice. Act ii. Sc. 6. 



TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. 

The weather-leech of the topsail 
shivers, 

The bow-lines strain, and the lee- 
shrouds slacken, 



The braces are faut, the lithe boom 

quivers, 
And the waves with the coming 

squall-cloud blacken. 

Open one point on the weather-bow. 

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island 
Head? 

There's a shade of doubt on the cap- 
tain's brow. 

And the pilot watches the heaving 
lead. 

I stand at the wheel, and with eager 

eye, 
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, 
Till the muttered order of '^ Full and 

by!" 
Is suddenly changed for "Full for 

stays !" 

The ship bends lower before the 

breeze, 
As her broadside fair to the blast she 

lays; 
And she swifter springs to the rising 

seas, 
As the pilot calls, " Stand by for 

stays!" 

It is silence all, as each in his place. 

With the gathered coil in his har- 
dened hands. 

By tack and bowline, by sheet and 
brace, 

Waiting the watchword impatient 
stands. 

And the light on Fire Island Head 

draws near, 
As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout 
From his post on the bowsprit's heel 

I hear, 
With the welcome call of " Ready ! 

About!" 

No time to spare ! It is touch and go ; 
And the captain growls, "Down, 

helm! hard down!" 
As my weight on the whirling spokes 

I throw, 
Wliile heaven grows black with the 

storm-cloud's frown. 

High o'er the knight-heads flies the 
spray. 

As we meet the shock of the plun- 
ging sea; 



NATURE. 



41 



AJid my shoulder stiff to the wheel I 

lay, 
As I answer, " Ay, ay, sir ! Ha-a-rd 

a lee ! " 

With the swerving leap of a startled 

steed 
The ship flies fast in the eye of the 

wind, 
The dangerous shoals on the lee 

recede, 
And the headland white we have 

left behind. 

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, 
And belly and tug at the groaning 

cleats ; 
The spanker slats, and the mainsail 

flaps ; 
And thunders the order, " Tacks aiid 

sheets ! " 

' Mid the rattle of blocks and the 
tramp of the crew, 

Hisses the rain of the rushing squall : 

The sails are aback from clew to 
clew. 

And now is the moment for, "Main- 
sail, haul! " 

And the heavy yards, like a baby's 
toy, 

By fifty strong arms are swiftly 
swung : 

She holds her way, and I look with 
joy 

For the first white spray o'er the bul- 
warks flung. 

"Let go, and haul!" 'Tis the last 

command, 
And the head-sails fill to the blast 

once more : 
Astern and to leeward lies the land, 
With its breakers white on the 

shingly shore. 

What matters the reef, or the rain, 

or the squall ? 
I steady the helm for the open sea ; 
The first mate clamors, ''Belay there, 

all!" 
And the captain's breath once more 

comes free. 

And so off shore let the good ship 

.. fly; 

Little care I how the gusts may blow, 



In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket 

dry, 
Eight bells have struck and my watch 

is below. 

Walter Mitciiel. 



SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN 
BERMUDA. 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that rowed along, 
The listening winds received this 

song : — 
"What should we do but sing His 

praise. 
That led us through the watery 

maze 
Where He the huge sea-monsters 

wracks, 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own ? 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
Safe from the storms, and prelate's 

rage : 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels every thing. 
And sends the fowls to us in care 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night. 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows : 
He makes the figs our mouths to 

meet, 
And throws the melons at our feet ; 
But apples, plants of such a price. 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by his hand 
From Lebanon he stores the land ; 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The gospel's ijearl upon our coast; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound his name. 
Oh ! let our voice his praise exalt 
Till it arrive at heaven's vault, 
Wliich then perhaps rebounding may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay." 
Thus sung they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note : 
And all the way, to guide theu- 

chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 
A. Marvell. 



42 



PARNASSUS. 



CAVE OF STAFFA. 

Thanks for the lessons of this spot, 
fit school 

For the presumptuous thoughts that 
would assign 

Mechanic laws to agency divine, 

And, measuring heaven by earth, 
would overrule 

Infinite power. The pillared vesti- 
bule, 

Expanding yet precise, the roof em- 
bowed. 

Might seem designed to humble 
man, when proud 

Of his best workmanship by plan 
and tool. 

Down-bearing with his whole Atlan- 
tic weight 

Of tide and tempest on the struc- 
ture's base. 

And flashing upwards to its topmost 
height, 

Ocean has proved its strength, and 
of its grace 

In calms is conscious, finding for his 
freight 

Of softest music some responsive 
place. 

WOKDSW^OKTH. 



FLOWERS ON THE TOP OF 
THE PILLARS AT THE EN- 
TRANCE OF THE CAVE. 

Hope smiled when your nativity 

was cast. 
Children of summer! Ye fresh 

flowers that brave 
Wliat summer here escapes not, the 

fierce wave, 
And whole artillery of the western 

blast. 
Battering the temple's front, its 

long-drawn nave 
Smiting, as if each moment were 

their last. 
I3ut ye, bright flowers, on frieze and 

architrave 
Survive, and once again the pile 

stands fast. 
Calm as the universe, from specular 

towers 
Of heaven contemplated by spirits 

pure — 
Suns and their systems, diverse yet 

sustained 



In symmetry, and fashioned to en- 
dure. 

Unhurt, the assaults of time with all 
his hours. 

As the supreme Artificer ordained. 

WORDSWOKTH. 



THE STORM. 

The sky is changed; and such 

a change ! O night. 
And stomi, and darkness, ye are 

wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is 

the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling 

crags among. 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from 

one lone cloud. 
But every mountain now hath 

found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her 

misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to 

her aloud ! 

Bykon. 



SUNSET. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not 

night : 
Sunset divides the sky with her; 

a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine 

height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; heaven 

is free 
From clouds, but of all colors 

seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the west, 
Where the day joins the past 

eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek 

Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air, an 

island of the blest. 

A single star is at her side, and 

reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely 

heaven ; but still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, 

and remains 
Rolled o'pr the peak of the fat 

Rhoetian hill. 



NATURE. 



43 



As day and night contending were 

until 
Nature reclaimed her order: 

gently Hows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where 

their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born 

rose, 
VVTiich streams upon her stream, 

and glassed within it glows, 

Filled with the face of heaven, 

wiiich, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all 

its hues. 
From the rich sunset to the rising 

star, 
Their magical variety diffuse: 
And now they change; a paler 

shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains: 

parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each 

pang imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away. 
The last still loveliest, till 'tis gone 

— and all is gray. 

Byeon. 



MOONLIGHT. 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps 

upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds 

of music 
Creep in your ears: soft stillness, 

and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet hai*- 

mony. 
3it, Jessica : look, how the floor of 

heaven 
[s thick inlaid with patines of bright 

gold : 
There's not the sma'lest orb which 

thou behold' St, 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
>till quiring to the young-ey'd 

cherubims. 

Shakspeake. 



ODE TO EVENING. 

p aught of oaten stop, or pastoral 

song, 
lay hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy 

modest ear, 



Like thy own brawling springs. 
Thy springs, and dying gales ; 

O nymph reserved, while now the 

bright-haired sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy 
skirts. 
With brede ethereal wove, 
O'erhang his wavy bed: 

Now air is hush'd, save where the 

weak-eyed bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on 
leathern wing ; 
Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight 

path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless 
hum: 
Now teach me, maid composed. 
To breathe some softened strain. 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy 

darkening vale. 
May not unseemly with its stillness 
suit ; 
As, musing slow, I hail 
Thy genial loved return ! 

For when thy folding-star arising 
shows 

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
The fragrant Hours and Elves 
Who slept in buds the day, 

And many a Nymph who wreathes 

her brows with sedge, 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, 
lovelier still. 
The pensive Pleasures sweet, 
Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and 

healthy scene ; 
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary 
dells, 
Wliose walls more awful nod 
By thy religious gleams. 

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driv- 
ing rain, 

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the 
hut, 
That from the mountain's side. 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 



44 



PARNASSUS. 



^^' 



Aad hamlets brown, and dim-dis- 
covered spires ; 
And hears their simple bell, and 
marks o'er all 
Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil. 

Wliile Spring shall pour his showers, 

as oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, 
meekest Eve ! 
While Summer loves to sport 
Beneath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap 

with leaves ; 
Or Winter, yelling through the trou- 
blous air, 
Affrights thy shrinking train, 
And rudely rends thy robes ; 

• 
So long, regardful of the quiet 

rule. 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, 
smiling Peace, 
Thy gentlest influence own, 
And love thy favorite name ! 

Collins. 



NIGHT AND DEATH. 

Mysterious Night! when our first 
Parent knew 

Thee, from report divine, and 
heard thy name. 

Did he not tremble for this lovely 
Frame, 

This glorious canopy of Light and 
Blue ? 
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent 
dew. 

Bathed in the rays of the great set- 
ting Flame, 

Hesperus with the Host of Heaven 
came, 

Andlo! Creation widened on Man's 
view. 
Who could have thought such Dark- 
ness lay concealed 

Within thy beams, O Sun! or who 
could find. 

Whilst flower, and leaf, and insect 
stood revealed, 

That to such countless Orbs thou 
mad'st us blind! 



Why do we then shun Death with 
anxious strife ? 
If Light can thus deceive, where- 
fore not Life ? 

J. Blanco White. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. || 

Since the Sun, 
The absolute, the world-absorbing 

one. 
Relinquished half his empire to the 

host 
Emboldened by thy guidance, holy 

star. 
Holy as princely, who that looks on 

thee. 
Touching, as now, in thy humility 
The mountain bojxlers of this seat 

of care. 
Can question that thy countenance 

is bright. 
Celestial power, as much with love 

as light ? 

Wordsworth. 



SONG OF THE STARS. 

When the radiant morn of creation 

broke, 
And the world in the smile of God 

awoke, 
And the empty realms of darkness 

and death 
Were moved through their depths 

by his mighty breath. 
And orbs of beauty and spheres of 

flame 
From the void abyss by myriads 

came, — 
In the joy of youth as they darted 

away. 
Through the widening wastes of 

space to play, 
Their silver voices in chorus rung, 
And this was the song the bright ones 

sung. 

"Away, away, through the wide, 

wide sky, — 
The fair blue fields that before us 

lie, — 
Each sun with the worlds that round 

him roll, 
Each planet poised on her turning 

pole ; 



NATURE. 



45 



With her isles of green and her 

clouds of white, 
And her waters that lie like fluid 

light. 

" For the Source of Glory uncovers 
his face, 

And the brightness o'erflows un- 
bounded space ; 

And we drink, as we go, the lumi- 
nous tides 

In our ruddy air and our blooming 
sides : 

Lo, yonder the living splendors 
play ; 

Away, on our joyous path, away ! 

" Look, look, througli our glittering 
ranks afar, 

In the infinite azure, star after star. 

How they brighten and bloom as they 
swiftly pass ! 

How the verdure runs o'er each roll- 
ing mass ! 

And the path of the gentle winds is 
seen, 

Where the small waves dance, and 
the yoimg woods lean. 

" And see, where brighter day-beams 
pour, 

How the rainbows hang in the sunny 
shower ; 

And the morn and eve, with their 
pomp of hues. 

Shift o'er the bright planets and shed 
their dews ; 

And 'twixt them both, o'er the teem- 
ing ground, 

With her shadowy cone the niglit 
goes round ! 

"Away, away! in our blossoming 

bowers, 
In the soft air wrapping these spheres 

of ours. 
In the seas and fountains that shine 

with morn. 
See, love is brooding, and life is born, 
And breathing myriads are breaking 

from night, 
To rejoice like us, in motion and 

light. 

" Glide on in your beauty, ye youth- 
ful spheres. 

To weave the dance that measures 
the years ; 



Glide on, in the glory and gladness 
sent, 

To the farthest wall of the firma- 
ment, — 

The boundless visible smile of Him, 

To the veil of whose brow your lamps 
are dim." 

Bryant. 



THE MILKY WAY. 

" Lo," quoth he, " cast up thine 
eye. 
See yonder, lo I the galaxie. 
The wliich men clepe the Milky Way, 
For it is white ; and some parfay 
Callen it Watling streete. 
That once was brent with the hete, 
When the Sunne's sonne tlie rede, 
That ^ight Phaeton, would lead 
Algate his fatlier's cart, and gie.* 

" The cart horses gan well asjiie, 
That he could no governaunce, 
And gan for to leape and praunce, 
And bear him up, and now down, 
Till he saw the Scorpioun, 
Which tliat in Heaven a signe is yet, 
And for fere lost his wit 
Of that, and let the reynes gone 
Of liis horses, and tliey anone 
Soone iip to mount, and downe de- 
scend, 
Till both air and Earthe brend, 
Till Jupiter, lo ! at the last 
Him slew, and fro tlie carte cast. 

Chaucer. 

HOPE. 

At summer eve, when heaven's ae- 
rial bow 
Spans with bright arcli tlie glittering 

hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the 

musing eye, 
Whose siinbright summit mingles 

with the sky ? 
Wliy do those cliffs of shadowy tint 

appear 
More sweet than all the landscape 

smiling near ? — 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to 

the view. 
And robes the mountain in its azure 

hue. 

Campbell. 
* Guide. 



46 



PARNASSUS. 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Tkiumphal arch, that fiU'st the sky- 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud philosophy 
To teach me what thou art. 

Still seem as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given, 
For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that optics teach unfold 
Thy form to please me so, 

As when I dreamed of gems and 
gold 
Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling 
dreams, 
But words of the Most High, 
Have told why first thy robe of 
beams 
Was woven in the sky. 

Wlien o'er the green, undeluged 
earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst 
shine. 
How came the world's gray fathers 
forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 
O'er mountains yet untrod, 

Each mother held aloft her child 
To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. 
The first-made anthem rang 

On earth, delivered from the deep, 
And the first poet sang. 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 
The lark thy welcome sings. 

When, glittering in the freshened 
fields, 
The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain, tower, and town. 

Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh in yon horizon dark. 
As young thy beauties seem, 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 



For, faithful to its sacred page. 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span ; 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age. 
That first spoke peace to man. 

Campbell. 



THE RAINBOW. 

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting 
through 
The scattering clouds, shone, span- 
ning the dark sea. 

Resting its bright base on the quiv- 
ering blue ; I ! 
And all within its arch appeared 1 
to be ■ ' 

Clearer than that without; and its 
wide hue 
Waxed broad and waving, like a 
banner free, 

Then changed like to a bow that's 
bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of those ship- 
wrecked men. 

It changed, of course; a heavenly 
chameleon. 
The airy child of vapor and the 
sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in 
vermilion, 
Baptized in molten gold, and 
swathed in dun. 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's 
pavilion, 
And blending every color into one. 
Byron. 



THE CLOIJD. 

I SIFT the snow on the mountains 
below. 
And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow 
white, 
While I sleep in the arms of the 
blast. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire 
laden, 
Wliom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece- 
like floor. 
By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen 
feet, 



NATURE. 



47 



"Wliicli only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my 
tent's thin roof, 
The stars peep behind her and 
peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and 
ilee. 
Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in ray wind- 
bnilt tent. 
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and 
seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through 
me on high 
Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 

I am the daughter of earth and 
water, 
And the nursling of the sl^y ; 
I pass through the pores of the 
ocean and shores ; 
I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never 
a stain. 
The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams, with 
their convex gleams. 
Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a 
ghost from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again. 

Shelley. 



A DROP OF DEW. 

See how the orient dew. 
Shed from the bosom of the morn 
Into the blowing roses, 
(Yet careless of its mansion new. 
For the clear region where 'twas 
born,) 
Round in itself encloses 
And, in its little globe's extent. 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 
How it the purple flower does 
slight. 
Scarce touching where it lies', 
But gazing back upon the skies, 
Shines with a mournful light. 
Like its own tear, 
Because so long divided from the 
sphere. 
Restless it rolls, and insecure. 
Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 



Till the warm sun pities its pain, 
And to the skies exhales it back 
again. 

So the soul, that drop, that ray, 
Of the clear fountain of eternal 

day, 
Could it within the human flower 
be seen. 
Remembering still its fonner 
height. 
Shuns the sweet leaves, and blos- 
soms green. 
And, recollecting its own light, 
Does, in its pure and circling 

thoughts, express 
The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
In how coy a figure woujid. 
Every way it turns away. 
So the world excluding round, 
Yet receiving in the day. 
Dark beneath, but bright above, 
Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go ; 
How girt and ready to ascend; 
Moving but on a point below. 
It all about does upwards bend. 
Such did the mamia's sacred dew dis- 
til. 
White and entire, although congealed 

and chill ; 
Congealed on earth; but does, dis- 
solving, run 
Into the glories of the almighty sun. 
Makvell. 



SMOKE. 

Light-winged Smoke ! Icarian bird, 
Melting thy pinions in thy upward 

flight; 
Lark without song, and messenger 

of dawn. 
Circling above the hamlets as thy 

nest; 
Or else, departing dream, and shad- 
owy form 
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy 

skirts ; 
By night star-veiling, and by day 
Darkening the light and blotting out 

the sun ; 
Go thou, my incense, upward from 

this hearth. 
And ask the gods to pardon this clear 

flame. 

Thokeau. 



48 



PAEKASSUS. 



MIST. 

Low-anchored cloud, 

Newfoundland air, 

Fountain-head and source of rivers, 

Dew-cloth, dream-draiJery, 

And napkni spread by fays ; 

Drifting meadow of the air, 

^Vliere bloom the daisied banks and 

violets, 
And in whose fenny labyrinth 
The bittern booms and heron wades ; 
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, — 
Bear only perfumes and the scent 
Of healing herbs to just men's fields. 
Thoreau. 



HAZE. 

Woof of the fen, ethereal gauze. 
Woven of Nature's richest stuffs, 
Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea. 
Last conquest of the eye ; 
Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust. 
Aerial surf upon the shores of earth. 
Ethereal estuary, frith of light. 
Breakers of air, billows of heat. 
Fine summer spray oh inland seas ; 
Bird of the sun, transparent-winged. 
Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned. 
From heath or stubble rising without 

song, — 
Establish thy serenity o'er the fields. 
Thoreau. 



AT SEA. 

The night is made for cooling shade, 
For silence, and for sleep ; 



And when I was a child, I laid 

My hands upon my breast, and prayed, 

And sank to slumbers deep : 
Childlike as then I lie to-night. 
And watch my lonely cabin-light. 

Each movement of the swaying lamp 

Shows how the vessel reels : 
As o'er her deck the billows tramp. 
And all her timbers strain and cramj) 

With every shock she feels. 
It starts and shudders, while it burns, 
And in its hinged socket turns. ( 

Now swinging slow and slanting low, 

It almost level lies ; 
And yet I know, while to and fro 
I watch the seeming pendule go 

With restless fall and rise. 
The steady shaft is still upright. 
Poising its little globe of light. 

hand of God ! O lamp of peace ! 
O promise of my soul ! 

Though weak, and tossed, and ill at 

ease. 
Amid the roar of smiting seas, j 

The ship's convulsive roll, 

1 own with love and tender awe 
Yon perfect type of faith and law. 

A heavenly trust my spirit calms, 

My soul is filled with light : 
The Ocean sings his solemn psalms. 
The wild winds chant: I cross my 
palms, 
Happy as if to-night 
Under the cottage roof again 
I heard the soothing summer rain. 
J. T. Tkowbbidge. 



n. 

HUMAN LIFE. 

HOME. — WOMAN. — LOVE. — FRIENDSHIP. 
MANNERS. — BEAUTY. 



''' The privates of man's heart — 
Tliey speken and sound in Ms ear 
Ab thougli they loud winds were." — GOTTEK. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



HOME. 

'Tis not in battles that from youth 

we train 
The governor who must be wise and 

good, 
And temper with the sternness of 

the brain 
Thoughts motherly, and meek as 

womanhood. 
Wisdom doth live with children 

round her knees : 
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and 

the talk 
Man holds with week-day man in the 

hourly walk 
Of the mind's . business : these are 

the degrees 
By which true Sway doth mount; 

this is the stalk 
True Power doth grow on ; and her 

rights are these. 

Wordsworth. 



TO CORINlSrE. 

Happy, happier far than thou 
With the laurel on thy brow, 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lovely but to one on earth ! 

Hemans. 



LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 

Bright flag at yonder tapering mast, 

Fling out your field of azure blue ; 

Let star and stripe be westward cast, 

And point as Fi'eedom's eagle 

flew! 

Strain home ! O lithe and quivering 

spars ! 
Point home, my country's flag of 
stars ! 



My mother, in thy prayer to-night 
There come new words and warm- 
er tears ; 
On long, long darkness breaks the 
light. 
Comes home the loved, the lost for 
years. 
Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! 

Fear not to-night, or storm or sea: 
The ear of Heaven bends low to 
her! 
He comes to shore who sails with 
me. 
The wind-tossed spider needs no 
token 
How stands the tree when light- 
nings blaze ; 
And, by a thread from heaven un- 
broken, 
I know my mother lives and 
prays. 

N. P. Willis. 



THE LAST FAREWELL. 

Farewell, ye lofty spires 
That cheered the holy light ! 
Farewell, domestic fires 
That broke the gloom of night ! 
Too soon these spires are lost. 
Too fast we leave the bay, 
Too soon by ocean tost 
From hearth and home away, 

Far away, far away. 

Farewell, the busy town. 
The wealthy and the wise, 
Kind smile and honest frown 
From bright, familiar eyes. 
All these are fading now ; 
Our brig hastes on her way ; 
Her uni'ememb' ring prow 
Is leaping o'er the sea. 

Far away, far away. 
51 



52 



PARNASSUS. 



Farewell, my mother fond, 
Too kind, too good to me, 
Nor pearl, nor diamond 
Would pay my debt to thee ; 
But even thy kiss denies 
Upon my cheek to stay. 
The winged vessel flies, 
And billows round her play, 

Far away, far away. 

Farewell, my brothers true, 
My betters, yet my peers. 
How desert without you 
My few and evil years ! 
But though aye one in heart. 
Together sad or gay. 
Rude ocean doth us part, 
We separate to-day. 

Far away, far away. 

Farewell I breathe again 
To dim New England's shore : 
My heart shall beat not when 
I pant for thee no more. 
In yon green palmy isle, 
Beneath the tropic ray, 
I murmur never while 
For thee and thine I pray : 

Far away, far away. 
Emebsow. 



MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

My mother, when I learned that 
thou wast dead, 

Say, wast thou conscious of the 
tears I shed ? 

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrow- 
ing son, — 

Wretch even then, life's journey 
just begun ? 

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial- 
day; 

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow 
away; 

And, turning from my nursery-win- 
dow, drew 

A long, long sigh, and wept a last 
adieu ! 

But was it such? It was. Where 
thou art gone, 

Adieus and farewells are a sound 
unknown ; 

May I but meet thee on that peaceful 
shore. 



The parting word shall pass my lips 

no more. 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at 

my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick 

return : 
What ardently I wished, I long be- 
lieved. 
And, disappointed still, was still de- 
ceived, — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of tomorrow even "from a 

child. 
Thus many a sad tomorrow came 

and went. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows 

spent, 
I learned at last submission to my 
lot; ^ 

But, though I less deplored thee, 

ne'er forgot. 
Wliere once we dwelt, our name is 

heard no more ; 
Children not thine have trod my 

nursery floor; 
And where the gardener Robin, day 

by day. 
Drew me to school along the public 

way, — 
Delighted with my bauble coach, 

and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet 

cap, — 
Could Time, his flight reversed, re- 1 
store the hours « 

When, playing with thy vesture's tis- 
sued flowej-s, — 
The violet, the pink, the jessa- 
mine, — 
I pricked them into paper with a 

pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself 

the while — - 

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my 

head, and smile,) 
Could those few pleasant days again 

appear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I 

wish them here? 
But no ! What here we call our life is 

such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so 

much, 
That I should ill requite thee to con- 
strain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds 
again. 

COWPEK, 



J 



HUMAN LIFE. 



53 



IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, 
MY LOVE. 

If thou wert by my side, my love, 
How fast would evening fail, 
In gi-een Bengala's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! 

I miss thee, when, by Gunga's 

stream. 
My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale 

beam 
I miss thee from my side. 

But when at morn and eve the star 
Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 
Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on, then on, where duty 

leads ! 
My course be onward still. 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 
O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly 

gates, 
Nor mild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 
By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, 

they say. 
Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 
As then shall meet in thee ! 

Hebek. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY 
NIGHT. 



November chill blaws loud wi' an- 
gry sugh ; 
Tlie short' ning winter-day is near 
a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the 
pleugh ; 
The black' ning trains o' craws to 
their repose ; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor 
goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at 
an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, 
and his hoes, 



Hoping the morn in ease and rest 
to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his 
course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in 
view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged 
tree; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin 
stacher thro', 
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin 
noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkiu bonnily. 
His clane hearth-stane, his thriftie 
wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his 
knee. 
Does all his weary carking cares 
beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his 
labor an' his toil. 



Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sis- 
ters meet. 
An' each for other's welfare kindly 
spiers : 
The social hours, swift-winged, un- 
noticed fleet ; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees 
or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hope- 
ful years, 
Anticipation forward points the 
view. 
The mother, wi' her needle and her 
shears. 
Gars auld claes look amaist as 
weel's the new; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition 
due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's 
command, 
The younkers a' are warned to 
obey ; 
And mind their labors wi' an eydent 
hand. 
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to 
jauk or play : 
" And, oh! be sure to fear the Lord 
alway, 
And mind your duty, duly, morn 
and night! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang 
astray, 



54 



PARNASSUS. 



Implore his counsel and assisting 
might : 
They never sought in vain that 
sought the Lord aright ! " 

But, hark! a rap comes gently to 
the door ; 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' 
the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the 
moor. 
To do some errands, and convoy 
her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious 
flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush 
her cheek ; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, in- 
quires his name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to 
speak ; 
Weel pleas' d the mother hears, it's 
nae wild worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings 
him ben ; 
A strappan youth; he takes the 
mother's eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill 
ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, 
pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'er- 
flows wi' joy, 
But, blate and laitlifu', scarce can 
weel behave ; 
The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, 
can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' 
an' sae grave ; 
Weel pleas' d to think her bairn's re- 
spected like the lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this 
is found ! 
O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond 
compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal 
round. 
And sage experience bids me this 
declare — 
"If Heav'n a draught of heav'nly 
pleasure spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy 
vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, mod- 
est pair, 



In other's arms breathe out the 

tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that 
scents the ev'ning gale ! " 



But now the supper crowns their 
simple board. 
The halesome parritch, chief o' 
Scotia's food: 
The soupe their only hawkie does 
afford. 
That 'yont the hallau snugly 
chows her cood ; 
The dame brings forth in compli- 
mental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd 
kebbuck, fell, 
And aft he's prest, and aft he calls it 
gude ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will 
tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' 
lint was i' the bell. 



I 



The cheerful supper done, wi' 
serious face. 
They, round the ingle, form a cir- 
cle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal 
grace, 
The big ha'-Bible, ance his 
father's pride: ' 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
His lyart haffets wearing thin an' 
bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in 
Zion glide. 
He wales a portion with judicious 
care; 
And "Let us worship God!" he 
says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in 
simple guise'; 
They tune their hearts, by far the 
noblest aim ; 
Perhaps "Dundee's " wild warbling 
measures rise. 
Or plaintive "Martyrs." worthy 
of the name ; 
Or noble " Elgin" beats the heav'n- 
ward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy 
lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills 
are tame : 



HUMAN LIFE. 



55 



The tickled ears no heart-felt rap- 
tures raise; 
Nae unison liae they with our Crea- 
tor's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the 
sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend of 
God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious proge- 
ny; 
Or how the royal Bard did groaning 
lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's 
avenging ire : 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing 
cry; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the 
sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the 
theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty 
man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the 
second name. 
Had not on earth whereon, to lay 
his head : 
How his first followers and ser- 
vants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to 
many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos ban- 
ished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel 
stand ; 
And heard great Babylon's doom 
pronounced by Heaven's com- 
mand. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's 
Eternal King, 
The saint, the father, and the hus- 
band prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumph- 
ant wing," 
That thus they all shall meet in 
future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
No more to sigh, or shed the bit- 
ter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's 
praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in 
an eternal sphere. 



Compar'd with this, how poor reli- 
gion's pride. 
In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations 
wide 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the 
heart ! 
The Power, incens'd, the pageant 
will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdo- 
tal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleas' d, the lan- 
guage of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates 
poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their 
sev'ral way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to 
rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage 
pay, 
And proffer up to Heaven the 
warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam- 
'rous nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry 
pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees 
the best, 
For them and for their little oues 
provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with 
grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's 
grandeur springs. 
That makes her lov'd at home, 
rever'd abroad: 
Princes and lords are but the breath 
of kings; 
"An honest man's the noblest 
work of God:" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly 
road. 
The cottage leaves the palace far 
behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cum- 
brous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of hu- 
man kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wicked- 
ness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to 
Heaven is sent ! 



56 



PARNASSUS. 



Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, 
and sweet content ! 
And, oh, may Heaven their simple 
lives prevent 
From luxury's contagion, weak 
and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets 
be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the 
while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their 
much-lov'd isle. 

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic 
tide 
That stream' d thro' Wallace's un- 
daunted heart ; 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic 
pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious 
part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou 
art, 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and 
reward ! ) 
O never, never Scotia's realm desert; 
But still the patriot, and the pa- 
triot-bard, 
In bright succession raise, her orna- 
ment and guard ! 

BUBNS. 



THE BABE. 

Naked on parents' knees, a newborn 

child. 
Weeping thou sat'stwhen all around 

thee smiled : 
So live, that, sinking to thy last long 

sleep. 
Thou then mayst smile while all 

around thee weep. 

SiK William Jones: 
Translated from Calidasa. 



THE WOOD-FIRE. 

This bright wood-fire. 
So like to that which warmed and 
lit 
My youthful days, — how doth it 

flit 
Back on the pei'iods nigher ! 
Re-lighting and re-warming with its 
glow 



The bright scenes of my youth, — all 
gone out now. 

How eagerly its flickering blaze doth 
catch 

On every point now wrapped in 
time's deep shade! 

Into what wild grotesqueness by its 
flash 

And fitful checkering is the picture 
made ! 
When I am glad or gay, 

Let me walk forth into the brilliant 
sun. 

And with congenial rays be shone 
upon : 

When I am sad, or thought-be- 
witched would be. 

Let me glide forth in moonlight's 
mystery. 

But never, while I live this change- 
ful life. 

This past and future with all won- 
ders rife. 

Never, bright flame, may be denied 
to me 

Thy dear, life-imaging, close sympa- 
thy. 

What but my hopes shot upwards 
e'er so bright? 

What but my fortunes sank so low 
in night ? 

Why art thou banished from our 
hearth and hall. 

Thou who art welcomed and beloved 
by all ? 

Was thy existence then too fanciful 

For our life's common light, who are 
so dull ? 

Did thy bright gleam mysterious 
converse hold 

With our congenial souls? secrets 
too bold ? 

Well, we are safe and strong ; for now 
we sit 

Beside a hearth where no dim sha- 
dows flit ; 

Where nothing cheers nor saddens, 
but a fire 

Warms feet and hands, nor does to 
more aspire ; 

By whose compact, utilitarian heap, 

The present may sit down and go to 
sleep. 

Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim 
past walked. 

And with us by the unequal light of 
the old wood-fire talked. 

E. S. H. 



HUMAJSr LIFE. 



57 



GIVE ME THE OLD. 



Old wine to drink ! 
Ay, give tlie slippery juice 
That drippeth from the grape thrown 
loose 
Within the tun; 
Plucked from beneath th^ cliff 
Of sunny-sided Tenerifte, 

And ripened 'neath the blink 
Of India's sun! 
Peat whiskey hot, 
Tempered with well-boiled water! 
These make the long night shorter, 

Forgetting not 
Good stout old English porter. 



Old wood to bimi ! — 
Ay, bring the hillside beech 
From where the owlets meet and 
screech, 
And ravens croak ; 
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; 
Bring too a clump of fragrant peat. 
Dug 'neath the fern; 
The knotted oak, 
A fagot too, perhap, 
Whose bright flame, dancing, wink- 
ing, 
Shall light us at our drinking ; 

■yVhile the oozing sap 
Shall make sweet music to our think- 



Old books to read ! 
Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 
The brazen-clasped, the vellum-writ, 

Time-honored tomes ! 
The same my sire scanned before, 
The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 
The same his sire from college bore, 
The well-earned meed 
Of Oxford's domes : 
Old Homer blind, 
Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 
Old TuUy, Plautus, Terence lie ; 
Mort Arthur^ s olden minstrelsie. 
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay ! 
And Gerva,se Markham's venerie — 

Nor leave behind 
The Holy Book by which we live 
and die. 



rv. 

Old friends to talk ! 
Ay, bring those chosen few, 
The wise, the courtly, and the true. 

So rarely found ; 
Him for my wine, him for my stud. 
Him for my easel, distich, bud 
In mountain walk ! 
Bring Walter good : 
With soulfvil Fred; and learned Will, 
And thee, my alter ego, (dearer still 
For every mood). 

K. H. Messingeb. 



TO A CHILD. 

I WOULD that thou might always be 

As innocent as now. 

That time might ever leave as free 

Thy yet unwritten bi*ow. 

I would life were all poetry 

To gentle measure set, 

That nought but chastened melody 

Might stain thine eye of jet, 

Nor one discordant note be spoken, 

Till God the cunning harp had broken. 
I fear thy gentle loveliness. 
Thy witchhig tone and air. 
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness 
May be to thee a snare. 
The silver stars may purely shine, 
The waters taintless flow ; 
But they who kneel at woman's 

shrine 
Breathe on it as they bow. 

N. P. Willis. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
Wlien the night is beginning to 
lower, 
Comes a pause in the day's occupa- 
tions 
That is known as the children's 
hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet. 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamp- 
light. 
Descending the broad hall-stair, 



58 



PARNASSUS. 



Grave Alice and laughing AUegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence ; 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning 
together 

To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall : 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle waU. 

They climb up into my turret 
O'er the arms and back of my 
chair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me : 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses ; 

Their arms about me intwine, 
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 

In his Mouse-Tower on the Khine. 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti ! 

Because you have scaled the wall, 
Such an old mustache as I am 

Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart, 

But put you down into the dungeons 
In the Bound Tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, — 

Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away. 

Longfellow. 



WOMAN. 

There in the fane a beauteous 

creature stands, 
The first best work of the Creator's 

hands, 
Wliose slender limbs inadequately 

bear 
A full-orbed bosom and a weight of 

care; 
Whose teeth like pearls, whose lips 

like cherries, show. 
And fawn-like eyes still tremble as 

they glow. 

John Wilson : 
Translated from Culidam. 



TO SILVIA. 

I AM holy while I stand 

Circum-crost by thy pure liand ; 
But when that is gone, again 

I, as others, am profane. 

Herrick. 



THE RO»E OF THE WORLD. 



Lo, when the Lord made north and 
south. 
And sun and moon ordained, *he, 
Forth bringing each by word of 
mouth 
In order of its dignity. 
Did man from the crude clay express 
By sequence, and, all else decreed, 
He formed the woman; .nor might 
less 
Than Sabbath such a work suc- 
ceed. 



And still with favor singled oilt. 

Marred less than man by mortal 
fall. 
Her disposition is devout. 

Her countenance angelical. 
No faithless thought her instinct 
shrouds. 

But fancy checkers settled sense, 
Like alteration of the clouds 

On noonday's azure permanence. 
Pure courtesy, composure, ease, 

Declare affections nobly fixed. 
And impulse sprung from due de- 
grees 

Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. 
Her modesty, her chiefest grace. 

The cestus clasping Venus' side. 
Is potent to deject the face 

Of him who would affi-ont its pride. 
Wrong dares not in her presence 
speak. 

Nor spotted thought its taint dis- 
close 
Under the protest of a cheek 

Outbragging Nature's boast, the 
rose. 
In mind and manners how discreet.' 

How artless in her very art! 
How candid in discourse! how sweet 

The concord of her lips and heart ! 



HUMAN LIFE 



59 



How (not to call true instinct's bent 

And woman's very nature harm), 
How amiable and innocent 

Her pleasure in her power to 
charm ! 
How humbly careful to attract, 

Though crowned with all the soul 
desires, 
Connubial aptitude exact, 

Diversity tliat never tires ! 

COVENTKY PATMORE. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry 
skies ; 
And all that's best of dark and 
bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Wliich heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the 
less, 
Had half impaired the nameless 
grace 
Wliich waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er ]ier face. 
Where thoughts serenely sweet ex- 
press 
How pure, how dear, their dwell- 
ing-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that 
brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that 
glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent. 

Bykon. 



ANATHEMATA. 

" O maiden ! come into port bravely, or 
sail with God the seas." 

With joys unknown, with sadness 
unconfessed, 

The generous heart accepts the pass- 
ing year. 

Finds duties dear, and labor sweet as 
rest. 

And for itself knows neither care 
nor fear. 



Fresh as the morning,, earnest as the 
hour 

That calls the noisy world to grate- 
ful sleep, 

Our silent thought reveres the name- 
less power 

That high seclusion round thy life 
doth keep : 

So feigned the poets, did Diana love 

To smile upon her darlings while 
they slejjt; 

Serene, untouched, and walking far 
above 

The narrow ways wherein the many « 
crept, 

Along her lonely path of himinous air 

She glided, of her brightness un- 
aware. 

Yet if they said she heeded not the 
hymn 

Of shepherds gazing heavenward 
from the moor; 

Or homeward sailors, when the wa- 
ters dim 

Flashed with long splendors, widen- 
ing toward the shore ; 

Nor wondering eyes of children cared 
to see ; 

Or glowing face of happy lover, up- 
turned, 

As late he wended from the trysting- 
tree. 

Lit by the kindly lamp in heaven 
that burned ; 

And heard unmoved the prayer of 
wakeful pain. 

Or consecrated maiden's holy vow, — 

Believe them not: they sing the 
song in vain; 

For so it never was, and is not now. 

Her heart was gentle as her face was 
fair, 

With grace and love and pity dwell- 
ing there. 

F. B. Sanborn. 



HONORIA. 

I WATCHED her face, suspecting 
germs 
Of love: her farewell showed me 
plain 
She loved, on the majestic terms 

That she should not be loved again. 
She was all mildness; yet t'was writ 
Upon her beauty legibly, 



60 



PARNASSUS. 



" He that's for heaven itself unfit, 
Let him not hope to merit me." 



And though her charms are a strong 
law 

Compelling all men to admire, 
They are so clad with lovely awe. 

None but the noble dares desire. 

He who would seek to make her his, 
Will comprehend that souls of 
grace 

Own sweet repulsion, and that 'tis 
The quality of their embrace 

To be like the majestic reach 
Of coupled suns, that, from afar. 

Mingle their mutual spheres, while 
each 
Circles the twin obsequious star : 

And in the warmth of hand to hand, 
Of heart to heart, he'll vow to note 

And reverently understand 
How the two spirits shine remote ; 

And ne'er to numb fine honor's nerve, 
Nor let sweet awe in passion melt. 

Nor fail by courtesies to observe 
The space which makes attraction 
felt; 

Nor cease to guard like life the sense 
Which tells him that the embrace 
of love 
Is o'er a gulf of difference 
Love cannot sound, nor death re- 
move. 

Coventry Patmoke. 



DUCHESSE BLANCHE. 

It happed that I came on a day 
Into a place, there tfiat I say. 
Truly the fairest companey 
Of ladies that ever man with eye 
Had seen together in one place, — 
Shall I clepe it hap or grace ? 
Among these ladies thus each one 
Sooth to say I saw one 
That was like none of the rout. 
For I dare swear without doubt. 
That as the summer's Sunne bright 
Is fairer, clearer, and hath more light 



Than any other planet in Heaven, 
The moone, or the starres seven, 
For all the world, so had she 
Surmounten them all of beauty, 
Of manner, and of comeliness, 
Of stature, and of well set gladnesse, 
Of goodly heed, and so well besey,i — . 
Shortly what shall I more say. 
By God, and by his holowes'^ twelve, 
It was my sweet, right all herselve. 
She had so stedfast countenance 
In noble port and maintenance, 
And Love that well harde my bone^ 
Had espied me thus soone, 
That she full soone in my thought 
As, help me God, so was I caught 
So suddenly that I ne took 
No manner counsel but at her look, 
And at my heart for why her eyen 
So gladly I trow mine heart, seyen 
That purely then mine own thought 
Said, 'Twere better to serve her for 

nought 
Than with another to be well. 

I saw her dance so comely, 
Carol and sing so swetely. 
Laugh and play so womanly. 
And look so debonairly. 
So goodly speak, and so friendly. 
That certes I trow that evermore 
N'as seen so blissful a treasore, 
For every hair on her head. 
Sooth to say, it was not red. 
Nor neither yellow nor brown it n'as, 
Methought m^ost like gold it was. 
And such eyen my lady had, 
Debonnaire, good, glad, and sad. 
Simple, of good mokel,*nottoo wide, 
Thereto her look was not aside. 
Nor overtwhart, but beset so well 
It drew and took up every dell. 
All that on her 'gan behold 
Her eyen seemed anon she would 
Have mercy, — folly wenden ^ so. 
But it was never the rather do. 
It was no counterfeited thing 
It was her own pure looking 
That the goddess Dame Nature 
Had made them open by measure 
And close; for, were she never so 

glad 
Her looking was not foolish sprad^ 
Nor wildly, though that she played ; 
But ever methought her eyen said 



1 Beseeii, appearing. 

2 Saints. 

3 Boon, petition. 



* Quantity, 
c Thought. 
6 Spread. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



61 



By Crod my wrath is all forgive. 
Tlu'rt'with her list so well to live, 
That diiiiiess was of her ailrad, 
She ii'as too sober ue too glad; 
In all thiiiges more measure 
Had never I trowe creature, 
But many one with her look she hurt, 
And that sat her full little at herte: 
For she knew nothing of their 

thought, 
But whether she knew, or knew it not, 
Al way she ue cared for them a stree ; ^ 
To get her love no near n'as he 
That woned - at home, than he in Inde, 
The foremost was alway behinde; 
But good folk over all other 
She loved as man may his brother, 
Of which love she was wonder large, 
In skilful places that bear charge : 
But what a visage had she thereto, 
Alas ! my heart is wonder wo 
That I not can describen it; — 
Me lacketh both English and wit 
For to undo it at the full. 
And eke my spirits be so dull 
So great a thing for to devise, 
I have not wit that can suffice 
To comprehend her beaute. 
But thus much I dare saine, that she 
Was white, ruddy, fresh, and lifely 

hued, 
And every day her beauty newed. 
And nigh her face was alderbest;^ 
For, certes, Nature had such lest 
To make that fair, that truly she 
Was her chief patron of beaute'. 
And chief example of all her worke 
And moulter :* for, be it never so derke, 
Methinks I see her evermo, 
And yet, moreover, though all tho 
That ever lived were now alive. 
Not would have founde to descrive 
In all her face a wicked sign, — 
For it was sad, simple, and benign. 
And such a goodly sweet speech 
Had that sweet, my life's leech. 
So friendly, and so well y-grounded 
Upon all reason, so well founded, 
And so treatable to all good, 
That I dare swear well by the rood, 
Of eloquence was never found 
So sweet a sounding faconde,^ 
Nor truer tongued nor scorned less. 
Nor bef^ could heal, that, by the Mass 
Idurst swear, though the Pope it sung. 



' Straw. 
' hived. 
' Best of all. 



•• Monster. 
*■' Eloiiuence. 
Better. 



There was never yet through her 

tongue 
Man or woman greatly harmed 
As for her was all harm hid, 
No lassie flattering in her worde, 
That, purely, her simple record 
Was found as true as any bond. 
Or truth of any man'es hand. 

Her throat, as I have now memory, 
Seemed as a round tower of ivory, 
Of good greatness, and not too great, 
And fair white she hete "^ 
That was my lady's name right, 
She was thereto fair and bright, 
She had not her name wrong. 
Right fair shouldei's, and body long 
She had, and armes ever lith 
Fattish, fleshy, not great therewith, 
Right white hands and nailes red 
Round breasts, and of good brede ^ 
Her lippes were ; a straight flat back, 
I knew on her none other lack. 
That all her limbs were pure snowing 
In as far as I had knowing. 
Thereto she could so well play 
What that her list, that I dare say 
That was like to torch bright 
That every man may take of light 
Enough, and it hath never the less 
Of manner and of comeliness. 
Right so fared my lady dear 
For every wight of her mannere 
Might catch enough if that he would 
If he had eyes her to behold 
For I dare swear well if that she 
Had among ten thousand be, 
She would have been at the best, 
A chief mirror of all the feast 
Though they had stood in a row 
To men's eyen that could know. 
For whereso men had played or 

waked, 
Methought the fellowship as naked 
Without her, that I saw once 
As a crown without stones. 
Truely she was to mine eye 
The solein^ phoenix of Araby, 
For there liveth never but one. 
Nor such as she ne know I none. 
To speak of goodness, truely she 
Had as much debonnairte 
As ever had Hester in the Bible, 
And more, if more were possible ; 
And sooth to say therewithal 
She had a wit so general. 



' Was called. 
8 Breadth. 



9 Sole. 



62 



PAHNASSUS. 



So well inclined to all good 
That all her wit was set by the rood, 
Without malice, upon gladness, 
And thereto I saw never yet a less 
Harmful than she was in doing. 
I say not that she not had knowing 
What harm was, or else she 
Had known no good, so thinketh me : 
And truly, for to sjjeak of truth 
But she had had, it had been ruth. 
Therefore she had so much her dell 
And I dare say, and swear it well 
That Truth himself over all and all 
Had chose his manor principal 
In her that was his resting place; 
Thereto she had the moste grace 
To have stedfast perseverance 
And easy attempre governance 
That ever I knew or wist yet 
So pure suffraunt was her wit. 

Chaucer. 



LUCY. 

^HREE years she grew in sun and 

shower ; 
Then Nature s.aid, " A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse; and with me 
The girl, in rock and plain. 
In earth and heaven, in glade and 

bower. 
Shall feel an overseeing power 
To kindle or restrain. 

"The floating clouds their state shall 

lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend : 
Nor shall she fail to see, 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's 

form 
By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her; and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward 

round ; 
And beauty, born of murmuring 

sound. 
Shall pass into her face. 



"And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell : 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell." 

Wordsworth. 



LOVE. 

Thou art not gone, being gone, 

where'er thou art 
Thou leav'st in him thy watchful 

eyes, in him thy loving heart. 
Donne. 



TRUE LOVE. 

I THINK not on my father, 

And these great tears grace his re- 
membrance more 

Than those I shed for him. Wliat 
was he lil<e? 

I have forgot him : my imagination 

Carries no favor in it, but Ber- 
tram's. 

I am undone: there is no living, 
none. 

If Bertram be away. It were all 
one, 

That I should love a bright, particu- 
lar star. 

And think to wed it, he is so above 
me: 

In his bright radiance and collateral 
light 

Must I be comforted, not in his 
sphere. 

The ambition in my love thus plagues 
itself. 

The h?nd that would be mated by the 
lion 

Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, 
though a- plague, 

To see him every hour; to sit and 
draw 

His arched brows, his hawking eye, 
his curls. 

In our heart's table ; heart, too capa- 
ble 

Of every line and trick of his sweet 
favor : 

But now he's gone, and my idola- 
trous fancy 

Must sanctify his relics. 

Shakspeare. 



HUMAl^r LIFE. 



63 



THE QUEEN. 



To heroism and holiness 

How luird it is for man to soar, 
But how miicli harder to be less 
Thau what his mistress loves him 
for ! 
He does with ease what do he must, 
Or lose her, and there's nought 
debarred 
From him who's called to meet her 
trust, 
And credit her desired regard. 
All, wasteful woman ! she that may 
On her sweet self set her own 
price. 
Knowing he cannot choose biit pay ; 
How has she cheapened paradise. 
How given for nought her priceless 
gift, 
How spoiled the bread, and spilled 
the wine. 
Which, spent with due, respective 
thrift, 
Had made brutes men, and men 
divine. 



n. 



queen ! awake to thy renown. 
Require what 'tis our wealth to 

give, 
And comprehend and wear the crown 
Of thy despised prerogative ! 

1 who in manhood's name at length 
With glad songs come to abdicate 

The gross regality of strength, 

Must yet in this thy praise abate. 
That through thine erring humble- 
ness 
And disregard of thy degree. 
Mainly, has man been so much less 
Than fits his fellowship with thee. 
High thoughts had shaped the fool- 
ish brow, 
The coward had grasped the hero's 
sword, 
The vilest had been great, hadst 
thou, 
Just to thyself, been worth's re- 
ward : 
But lofty honors undersold 

Seller and buyer both disgrace ; 
And favor that makes folly bold 
Puts out the light in virtue's face. 
Coventry Patmoke. 



I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. 

My dear and only love, I pray 

That little world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchy: 
For if confusion have a part. 

Which virtuous souls abhor, 
And hold a synod in thy heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Like Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone : 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
Wlio dares not put it to the touch, 

To gain or lose it all. 

But, if no faithless action stain 

Thy love and constant word, 
I'll make thee famous by my pen. 

And glorious by my sword. 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

As ne'er was known before ; 
I'll deck and crown thy head with 
bays. 

And love thee more and more. 

Mahquis of Montrose. 



TO LUCASTA. 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind. 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind. 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase. 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, dear, so much. 

Loved I not honor more. 

Richard Lovelace. 



APOLOGY FOR HAVING 
LOVED BEFORE. 

They that never had the use 
Of the grape's surprising juice, 
To the first delicious cup 
All their reason render up : 



64 



PAKNASSUS. 



Neither do, nor care to, know, 
Whether it be best or no. 

So they that are to love inclined, 
Sway'd by chance, nor choice or 
art, 

To the first that's fair or kind. 
Make a present of their heart : 

Tis not she that first we love. 

But whom dying we approve. 

To man, that was in th' evening 
made. 

Stars gave the first delight ; 
A.dmiring in the gloomy shade 

Those little drops of light. 

Then, at Aurora, whose fair hand 
Removed them from the skies, 

lie gazing toward the east did stand, 
Slie entertained his eyes. 

But when the bright sun did appear, 
All those he 'gan despise ; 

His wonder was determin'd there. 
And could no higher rise. 

He neither might nor wished to 
know 
A more refulgent light ; 
For that (as mine your beauties 
now ) , 
Employed his utmost sight. 

Edmund Waller. 



THE LADY'S YES. 

" Yes ! " I answered you last night: 
*' No!" this morning, sir, I say. 
Colors seen by candle-light 
Will not look the same by day. 

"When the tabors played their best, 
Lamps above, and laughs below, 
Love me sounded like a jest, 
Fit for Yes, or fit for No ! 

Call me false ; or call me free ; 
Vow, whatever light may shine, 
No man on thy face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both: 
Time to dance is not to woo; 
Wooer light makes fickle troth. 
Scorn of Jne recoils on you. 



Learn to win a lady's faith 
Nobly as the thing is high, 
Bravely as for life and death. 
With a loyal gravity. 

Lead her from the festive boards ; 
Point her to the starry skies ; 
Guard her by your faithful words, 
Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true, 
Ever true, as wives of yore. 
And her Yes, once said to you, 
Shall be Yes for evermore. 
Elizabeth Baerett Browning. 



OUTGROWN. 

Nay, you wrong her my friend, 
she's not fickle; her love she 
has simply outgrown : 

One can read the whole matter, 
translating her heart by the 
light of one's own. 

Can you bear me to talk Avith you 

frankly ? There is much that 

my heart would say ; 
And you know we were children 

together, have quarrelled and 

" made up " in play. 

And so, for the sake of old friend- 
ship, I venture to tell you the 
truth, — 

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, 
as I might in our earlier 
youth. 

Five summers ago, when you wood 
her, you stood on the sell- 
same plane, 

Face to face, heart to heart, never 
dreaming your souls could be 
parted again. 

She loved you at that time entirely, 

in the bloom of her life's early 

May; 
And it is not her fault, I repeat it, 

that she does not love you 

to-day. 

Nature never stands still, nor souls 
either: they ever go up or 
go down ; 



HUMAN LIFE. 



65 



A.iul hers has been steadily soar- 
ing — but how has it been 
with your own ? 

She has struggled and yearned and 
aspired, grown purer and wiser 
each year : 

The stars are not farther above 
you in yon luminous atmos- 
phere ! 

For she whom you crowned with 

fresh roses, down yonder, five 

summers ago, 
Has learned that the first of our 

duties to God and ourselves is 

to grow. 

Her eyes they are sweeter and 
calmer; but their vision is 
clearer as well : 

Her voice has a tenderer cadence, 
but is jjure as a silver bell. 

Her face has the look worn by those 
who with God and his angels 
have talked : 

The white robes she wears are less 
white than the spirits with 
whom she has walked. 

And you? Have you aimed at the 
highest? Have you, too, as- 
pired and prayed ? 

Have you looked upon evil un- 
sullied ? Have you conquered 
it undismayed ? 

Have you, too, grown purer and 
wiser, as the months and the 
years have rolled on ? 

Did you meet her this morning re- 
joicing in the triumph of 
victory won? 

N'ay, hear me ! The truth cannot 
harm you. When to-day in 
her presence you stood, 

Was the hand that you gave her as 
white and clean as that of her 
womanhood ? 

Go measure yourself by her stand- 
ard ; look back on the years 
that have fled : 

Then ask, if you need, why she tells 
you that the love of her girl- 
hood is dead. 
5 



She cannot look down to her lover : 
her love like her soul, as- 
pires ; 

He must stand by her side, or above 
her, who would kindle its 
holy fires. 

Now farewell ! For the sake of old 

friendship I have ventured to 

tell you the truth. 
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, 

as I might in our earlier 

youth. 

Julia C. K. Dorb. 



THE PORTEAIT. 

Give place, ye ladies, and begone. 
Boast not yourselves at all : 
For here at hand approacheth one 
Whose face will stain you all. 

The virtue of her lively looks 
Excels the precious stone : 
I wish to have none other books 
To read or look upon. 

In each of her two crystal eyes 
Smileth a naked boy : 
It would you all in heart suffice 
To see that lamp of joy. 

I think Nature hath lost the mould 
Wliere she her shape did take ; 
Or else I doubt if Nature could 
So fair a creature make. 

In life she is Diana chaste. 

In truth Penelope ; 

In word and eke in deed steadfast : 

What will you more we say ? 

If all the world were sought so far, 
Wlio could find such a wight ? 
Her beauty twinkleth like a star 
Within the frosty night. 

Her rosial color comes and goes 
With such a comely grace, 
More ruddier too, than in the rose 
Within her lovely face. 

At Bacchus' feast none shall her 

meet, 
Nor at no wanton play. 
Nor gazing in an open street, 
Nor gadding as astray. 



66 



PAENASSUS. 



The modest mirth that she doth use 
Is mixt with shamefastness ; 
All vice she doth wholly refuse, 
And hateth idleness. 

O Lord ! it is a world to see 
How virtue can repair 
And deck in her such honesty, 
Whom Nature made so fair ! 

How might I do to get a graffe 
Of this unspotted tree ? 
For all the rest are plain but chaff, 
Which seem good corn to be. 

Heywood. 



THE TKIBUTE. 

No splendor 'neath the sky's proud 
dome 
But serves for her familiar wear ; 
The far-fetch' d diamond finds its 
home 
Flashing and smouldering in her 
hair ; 
For her the seas their pearls reveal ; 
Art and strange lands her pomp 
supply 
With purjDle, chrome, and cochineal, 

Ochre, and lapis lazuli ; 
The Avorm its golden woof presents ; 
Whatever runs, flies, dives, or 
delves, 
All doff for her their ornaments, 
Wliich suit her better than them- 
selves ; 
And all, by this their power to give 
Proving her right to take, pro- 
claim 
Her beauty's clear prerogative 
To profit so by Eden'sblame. 

Coventry Patmore. 



ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA. 

You meaner beauties of the night. 

That poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your 
light, — 
You common people of the skies, 
What are you when the sun shall 
rise? 

Ye violets that first appear. 
By your pure purple mantles 
known, 



Like the proud virgins of the year, 
As if the spring were all your 

own, — 
What are you wheA the rose is 

blown ? 

Ye curious chanters of the wood, 
That warble forth dame Nature's 
lays. 
Thinking your voices understood 
By your weak accents, — what's 

your praise 
When Philomel her voice shall 
raise ? 

So when my mistress shall be seen, 
In form and beauty of her mind. 
By virtue first, then choice, a 
queen. 
Tell me if she was not design'd 
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind. 
Sir Henry Wotton. 



THOU HAST SWORN BY THY 
GOD, MY JEANIE. 

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my 

Jeanie, 
By that pretty white hand o' thine, 
And by a' the lowing stars in 

heaven, 
That thou wad aye be mine ! 
And I hae sworn by my God, my 

Jeanie, 
And by that kind heart o' thine. 
By a' the stars sown thick owre 

heaven. 
That thou shalt aye be mine ! 

Then foul fa' the hands that wad 

loose sic bands, 
And the heart that wad part sic luve! 
But there's nae hand can loose my 

band. 
But the finger o' Him above. 
Though the wee wee cot maun be 

my bield, 
And my clothing ne'er sa mean, 
I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' 

luve, — 
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 

Her white arm wad be a pillow for 

me 
Fu' safter than the down ; 
And Luve wad winnow owre us hia 

kind kind wings, 



HUMAN LIFE. Q<f 



An' sweetly I'd sleep an' sound. 
Conic here to me, tlioii lass o' my 

hive ! 
Come here and kneel wi me ! 
The morn is fu' o' the presence o' 

God, 
And I canna pray without thee. 

The morn wind is sweet 'mang the 

beds o' new flowers, 
The wee birds sing kindlie and hie; 
Our gudeman leans o'er his kale 

yard dyke. 
And a blythe auld bodie is he. 
The Beuk maun be ta'en when the 

carle comes hame, 
Wi the holy psalmodie ; 
And thou maun speak o' me to thy 

God, 
And I will speak o' thee. 

Cunningham. 



VIRGINIA. 

This knight a doughter hadde by 
his wif. 

No children had he mo in all his lit'. 

Faire was this maid in excellent 
beautee 

Aboven every wight that man may 
see: 

For nature hath with soveraine dili- 
gence 

Tformed hire in so gret excellence. 

As though she wolde sayn, lo, I 
Nature, 

Thus can I forme and peiiit a crea- 
ture, 

Whan that me list; who can me 
contref ete ? 

Pigmalion ? not, though he ay forge 
and bete, 

Or grave, or peinte : for I dare wel 
sain, 

Apelles, Xeuxis, shulden werche 
in vain. 

Other to grave, or peinte, or forge, 
or bete. 

If they presumed me to contrefete. 

For he that is the Former principal. 

Hath maked me his vicaire general 

To forme and peinten erthly crea- 
tures 

Right as me list, and eche thing in 
my cure is 

Under the mone, that may wane 
and waxe. 



And for my werk right nothing wo\ 

I axe; 
My lord and I ben ful of one accord. 
1 made her to the worship of my Lord. . 
Chaucer. 



THE BRIDE. 

Lo! where she comes along with 

portly pace, 
Like Pliojbe from her chamber of 

the east. 
Arising forth to run her mighty race, 
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin 

best. 
So well it her beseems, that ye would 

ween 
Some angel she had been. 
Her long, loose yellow locks, like 

golden wire. 
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling 

flowers atween, 
Do like a golden mantle her attire ; 
And being crowned with a garland 

green. 
Seem like some maiden queen. 
Her modest eyes abashed to behold 
So many gazers as on lier do stare, 
Upon the lov/ly ground affixed are; 
Ne dare lift uji her covmtenance too 

bold, 
But blush to hear her praises sung 

so loud, 
So far from being proud. 
Nathless do ye still loud her praises 

sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and 

your echo ring. 

Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, 
did ye see 

So fair a creature in your town be- 
fore ? 

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as 
she. 

Adorned with Beauty's grace and 
Virtue's store? 

Her goodly eyes like sapphires, shin- 
ing bright, 

Her forehead ivory white. 

Her cheeks like apples which the 
sun hath rudded, 

Her lips like cherries charming men 
to bite, 

Her breast like to a bowl of cream 
uncrudded. 

Her paps like lilies budded, 



*68 



PARNASSUS. 



Her snowy neck like to a marble 

tower ; 
And all her body like a palace fair, 
Ascending up with many a stately 

stair 
To Honor's seat and Chastity's sweet 

bower. 

Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in 

amaze. 
Upon her so to gaze. 
Whilst ye forget your former lay to 

sing. 
To which" the woods did answer, and 

your echo ring. 

Spensek. 



THE BRIDE. 

Her finger was so small the ring 
Would not stay on which they did 

bring, — 
It was too wide a peck ; 
And, to say truth, — for out it 

must, — 
It looked like the great collar — 

just — 
About our young colt's neck. 

Her feet beneath her petticoat. 
Like little mice stole in and out, 
As if they feared the light; 
But O, she dances such a way ! 
No sun upon an Easter day 
Is half so fine a sight. 

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, 
No daisy makes comparison ; 
Who sees them is undone ; 
For streaks of red were mingled 

there, 
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, 
The side that's next the sun. 

Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
Compared to that was next her 

chin, 
Some bee had stung it newly ; 
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her 

face, 
I durst no more upon them gaze, 
Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does 

speak 
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words 

did break, 



That they might passage get ; 
But she so handled still the matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better, 
And are not spent a whit. 

Sir John Suckling. 



VIOLA DISGUISED AND THE 
DUKE. 

Buke. — Once more, Cesario, 

Get thee to yon same sovereign 
cruelty : 

The parts that fortune hath be- 
stow' d upon her. 

Tell her, I hold as giddily as for- 
tune ; 

But 'tis that miracle and queen of 
gems. 

That nature jiranks her in, attracts 
my soul. 
Viola. — But if she cannot love 

you, sir? 
Duke. — I cannot be so answer'd. 
Vio. — Sooth, but you must. 

Say, that some lady, as pei'haps there 
is, 

Hath for your love as great a pang 
of heart 

As you have for Olivia : you cannot 
love her; 

You tell her so ; must she not, then, 
be answer'd? 
Duke. — There is no woman's sides 

Can bide the beating of so strong a 
Ijassion 

As love doth give my heart : no wo- 
man's heart 

So big, to hold so much ; they lack 
retention. 

Alas ! their love may be call'd a^jpe- 
tite, — 

No motion of the liver, but the pal- 
ate, — 

That suffer foi'feit, cloyment, and 
revolt ; 

But mine is all as hungry as the sea, 

And can digest as much: make no 
compare 

Between that love a woman can bear 
me. 

And that I owe Olivia. 
Vio. — Ay, but I know, — 
Duke. — "iVhat dost thou know? 
Vio. — Too well what love women 
to men may owe : 

In faith, they are as true of heart as 
we. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



69 



My father had a daughter lov'd a 

man, 
As it might be, perhaps, were I a 

woman, 
I should your lordship. 

Duke. — And what's her history? 
Vio. — A blank, my lord. !Shc 

never told her love, 
But let concealment, like a worm i' 

the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek ; she 

pin'd in thought; 
And with a green and yellow melan- 
choly. 
She sat like patience on a monu- 
ment. 
Smiling at grief. Was not this love 

indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more; 

but indeed 
Our shoAvs are more than will ; for 

still we prove 
Much in our vows, but little in our 

love. 
Duke. — But died thy sister of 

her love, my boy ? 
Vio. — I am all the daughters of 

my father's house, 
And all the brothers too. 

Shakspeake. 



OTHELLO'S DEFENCE. 

Most potent, grave, and reverend 

signiors, 
My very noble and approved good 

masters. 
That I have ta'en away this old 

man's daughter. 
It is most true ; true, I have married 

her; 
The very head and front of my 

offending 
Hath this extent, no more. Rude 

am I in my speech, 
And little bless'd with the set phrase 

of peace. 
For since these arms of mine had 

seven years' pith, 
Till now some nine moons wasted, 

they have used 
Their dearest action in the tented 

field: 
And little of this great world can I 

speak, 
More than pertains to feats of broil 

and battle ; 



And therefore little shall I grace my 

cause 
In speaking for myself. Yet, by 

your gracious patience, 
I will a round unvarnished tale 

deliver 
Of my whole course of love ; what 

drugs, what charms, 
Wliat conjuration, and what mighty 

magic, 
(For such proceeding I am charged 

withal, ) 
I won his daughter with. 

Her father loved me, oft invited me ; 
Still questioned me the story of my 

life, 
From year to year; the battles, 

sieges, fortunes, 
That I have passed. 
I ran it through, even from my 

boyish days. 
To the very moment that he bade 

me tell it : 
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous 

chances, 
Of moving accidents, by flood and 

field; 
Of hairbreadth scapes in the immi- 
nent deadly breach ; 
Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
And sold to slavery ; of my redemp- 
tion thence, 
And portance in my travel's his- 
tory : 
Wlierein of antres vast, and deserts 

idle, 
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills 

whose heads touch heaven. 
It was my hint to speak, such was 

the process : 
And of the Cannibals that each other 

eat. 
The Anthropophagi, and men whose 

heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders. 

These things to hear 
Would Desdemona seriously incline : 
But still the house affairs would 

draw her thence ; 
Which ever as she could with haste 

despatch. 
She'd come again, and with a 

greedy ear 
Devour up my discourse: which, I 

observing. 
Took once a pliant hour, and found 

good means 



70 



PARNASSUS. 



To draw from her a prayer of earnest 

heart, 
That I would all my pilgrimage 

dilate, 
Whereof by i^arcels she had some- 
thing heard, 
But not intentively : I did consent ; 
And often did beguile her of her 

tears, 
Wlien I did speak of some distressful 

stroke 
That my youth suffer' d. My story 

being done, 
She gave me for my pains a world 

of sighs : 
She swore, — in faith, 'twas strange, 

'twas passing strange ; 
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous piti- 
ful: 
She wished she had not heard it; 

yet she wished 
That heaven had made her such a 

man ; she thank'd me ; 
And bade me, if I had a friend that 

loved her, 
I should but teach him how to tell 

my story. 
And that would woo her. Upon 

this hint, I spake: 
She loved me for the dangers I had 

passed, 
And I loved her that she did pity 

them. 
This only is the witchcraft I have 

used : 
Here comes the lady, let her witness 

it. 

Shakspeare. 



ATHULF AND ETHILDA. 

Athulf. — Appeared 
The princess with that merry child 

Prince Guy: 
He loves me well, and made her stop 

and sit. 
And sate upon her knee, and it so 

chanced 
That in his various chatter he denied 
That I could hold his hand within 

my own 
So closely as to hide it: this being 

tried 
Was proved against him ; he insisted 

then 
I could not by his royal sister's 

hand 



Do likewise. Starting at the random 

word. 
And dumb with trepidation, there 1 

stood 
Some seconds as bewitched ; then I 

looked up. 
And in her face beheld an orient 

flush 
Of half-bewildered pleasure: from 

which trance 
She with an instant ease resumed 

herself. 
And frankly, with a pleasant laugh, 

held out 
Her arrowy hand. 
I thought it trembled as it lay in 

mine. 
But yet her looks were clear, direct, 

and free. 
And said that she felt nothing. 
Sidroc. — And what felt'st thou? 
Athulf. — A sort of swarming, curl- 
ing, tremulous tumbling, 
As though there were an ant-hill in 

my bosom. 
I said I was ashamed. — Sidroc, you 

smile. 
If at my folly, well! But if you 

smile. 
Suspicious of a taint upon my heart. 
Wide is your error, and you never 

loved. 

Henry Taylor. 



THE ECSTASY. 

Where, like a pillow on a bed, 
A pregnant bank swelled up to 
rest 
The violet's declining head. 

Sate we on one another's breast. 
Our hands were firmly cemented 
By a fast balm which thence did 
spring, 
Our eye-beams twisted, and did 
thread 
Our eyes upon one double string. 
So to ingraft our hands as yet 

Was all the means to make us one, 
And pictures in our eyes to get 

Was all our propagation. 
As 'twixt two equal armies Fate 

Suspends uncertain victoiy, 
Our souls (which to advance our 
state 
Were gone out) hung 'twixt her 
and me. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



71 



\nd whilst our souls negotiate 
there, 
We like sepulchral statues lay: 
All (lay the same our postures were, 

And we said nothing all the day. 
If any, so by love refined, 
That he soul's language under- 
stood, 
And by good love were grown all 
mind, 
Within convenient distance stood. 
He, (though he knew not which soul 
spoke. 
Because both meant, both spoke 
the same,) 
Might thence a new concoction take, 
And part far purer than he came. 
This ecstasy doth unperplex. 

We said, and tell us what we love ; 
We see by this it was not sex, 
We see, we saw not what did 
move : 
But as all several souls contain 
Mixture of things they know not 
what, 
Love these mixed souls doth mix 
again, 
And makes both one, each this 
and that. 
A single violet transplant, 
The strength, the color, and the 
size 
(All which before was poor and 
scant, ) 
Redoubles still and multiplies. 
Wlien love with one another so 

Interanimates two souls. 
That abler soul which thence doth 
flow 
Defects of loveliness controls. 
We then, who are this new soul, 

know 
Of what we are composed and made : 

For the atoms of which we grow 
Are soul, whom no change can 
invade. 
But, O alas ! so long, so far 
Our bodies why do we forbear ? 
They are ours, though not we. 
We are 
The Intelligences, they the spheres : 
We owe them thanks, because 
they thus 
Did us to us at first convey. 

Yielded their sense's force to us. 
Nor are dross to us, but allay. 
On man Heaven's influence works 
not so, 



But that it first imprints the Air; 
For soul into the soul may flow, 
Though it to body first repair. 
As our blood labors to beget 
Spirits as like souls as it can, 

Because such fingers need to knit 
That subtile knot which makes us 
man : 
So must pure lovers' souls descend 
To affections and to faculties, 
Wliich sense may reach and ap- 
prehend ; 
Else a great Prince in prison lies. 
To our bodies turn we then, and so 
Weak men on love revealed may 
look; 
Love's mysteries in souls do grow, 

But yet the body is the book. 
And if some lover such as we 

Have heard this dialogue of one. 
Let him still mark us, he shall see 
Small change when we're to 
bodies grown. 

Donne, 



LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT, 

Sitting in my window, 
Pointing my thoughts in lawn, I saw 

a god, 
(I thought, but it was you,) enter 

our gates ; 
My blood flew out and back again, 

as fast 
As I had prest it forth, and sucked 

it in. 
Like breath ; then was I called away 

in haste 
To entertain you. Never was a 
► man 

Heaved from a sheepcot to a sceptre, 

raised 
So high in thoughts as I : you left a 

kiss 
Upon these lips, then, which I mean 

to keep 
From you forever. I did hear you 

talk 
Far above singing; after you were 

gone, 
I grew acquainted with my heart, 

and searched 
What stirred it so, Alas! I found 

it love. 
Beaumont and Fletcher: 

Philaster, 



72 



PARNASSUS. 



MAUD. 



A VOICE by the cedar-tree, 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known 

to me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life, 
In the happy morning of life and of 

May, 
Singing of men that in battle array, 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face, 

And wild voice pealing up to the 

sunny sky. 
And feet like sunny gems on an 

English green ; 
Maud in the light of her youth and 

her grace, 
Singing of Death, and of Honor that 

cannot die, 
Till I well could weep for a time so 

sordid and mean. 
And myself so languid and base. 



Silence, beautiful voice, 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still ! I will hear you no more ; 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me 

a choice , 

put to move to the meadow, and fall 

before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and 

adore, 
^ot her, who is neither courtly nor 

kind. 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 

Tennyson. 



TO VENUS. 

O DIVINE star of Heaven, 
Thou in power above the seven ; 
Thou, O gentle Queen, that art 
Curer of each wounded heart, 



Thou the fuel, and the flame; 
Thou in heaven, and here, the same; 
Thou the wooer, and the wooed ; 
Thou the hunger, and the food ; 
Thou the prayer, and the prayed ; 
Thou what is or shall be said. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



ROSALINE. 

Like to the clear in highest sphere 
Where all imperial glory shines. 
Of selfsame color is her hair. 
Whether unfolded, or in twines : 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow. 
Resembling Heaven by every wink; 
The Gods do fear whereas they glow. 
And I do tremble when I think 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Her cheeks are like the blushing 

cloud 
That beautifies Aurora's face. 
Or like the silver crimson shroud 
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth 
grace ; 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! 
Her lips are like two budded roses 
Wliom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, 
Within which bounds she balm en- 
closes 
Apt to entice a deity : 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Her neck is like a stately tower 
Where Love himself imprisoned lies. 
To watch for glances every hour 
From her divine and sacred eyes : 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Her paps are centres of delight, 
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly 

frame. 
Where Nature moulds the dew of 

light 
To feed perfection with the same : 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

With orient pearl, with ruby red, 
With marble white, with sapphire 

blue, 
Her body every Avay is fed, 
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view: 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Nature herself her shape admires ; 
The Gods are wounded in her sight ; 
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires, 



HUMAN LIFE 



73 



And at her eyes his brand doth light : 
Heigho, would she were mine ! 

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I 

bemoan 
The absence of fair Rosaline, 
Since for a fair there's fairer none. 
Nor for her virtues so divine: 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ; 
Heigh ho, my heart ! would God that 
she were mine ! 

T. Lodge. 



SONG. 

See the chariot at hand here of 

Love, 
Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 
And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto iier beauty, 
And enamoured do wish so they 

might 
But enjoy such a sight ; 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, 

whither she would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
All that Love's world compriseth: 
Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
As Love's star when it riseth : 
Do but mark, her forehead's smooth- 
er 
Than words that soothe her. 
And fiom her arched brows such a 

grace 
Sheds itself through the face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good of the ele- 
ment's strife. 

Have you seen a bright lily grow, 

Before rude hands have touched it ? 

Have you marked but the fall o' the 
snow 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 

Have you felt the wool of the Bea- 
ver? 

Or Swan's down ever? 

Or have smelt of the bud of the brier? 

Or the Nard in^the fire? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 

so white, O so soft, O so sweet is 
she! 

Ben Jonson. 



ON A GIRDLE. 

That which her slender waist con- 
fined 

Shall now my joyful temples bind : 

No monarch but would give his 
crown 

His arms might do what this has done. 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good and all that's 

fair : 
Give me but what this ribband 

bound. 
Take all the rest the Sun goes round. 
Waller, 



SONNET. 

How oft, when thou, my music, mu- 
sic play' St, 

Upon that blessed wood whose mo- 
tion sounds 

With thy sweet fingers, when thou 
gently sway'st 

The wiry concord that mine ear con- 
founds. 

Do I envy those jacks, that nimble 
leap 

To kiss the tender inward of thy 
hand, 

■Wliilst my poor lips, which should 
that harvest reap. 

At the wood's boldness by thee 
blushing stand ! 

To be so tickled, they would change 
their state 

And situation with those dancing 
chips. 

O'er whom thy fingers walk with 
gentle gait, 

Making dead wood more bless'd than 
Uving lips. 
Since saucy jacks so happy are in 

this. 
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips 
to kiss. 

Shakspeare. 



GENEVIEVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all de- 
lights. 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
, And feed his sacred flame. 



74 



PARNASSUS. 



Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that liaijpy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing qjer the 

scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve; 
And she was there, my hope, my 
joy. 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armed man. 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story, — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest 

grace ; 
For well she knew I could not 

choose 
But gaze upon her face, 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he 
wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading 

tone 
With which I sang another's love 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a fitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest 

grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely 

Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain- 
woods. 
Nor rested day nor night ; 



That sometimes from tlie savage 

den. 
And sometimes from the darksome 

shade. 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade. 






There came and looked him in th 

face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than 
death 
The Lady of the Land ; 

And how she wept, and clasped his 

knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain. 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a 

cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dying words, — but when I 

reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity. 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle 

hope, 
An undistinguishable tlu'ong, 
And gentle wishes, long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long. 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin 

shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved : she ste^jt aside. 
As conscious of my look she stept; 
Tben suddenly, with timorous eye 
Slie fled to nie and wept. 



HUMAN LIFE 



75 



She half onclosod mo with her arms, 
Slie pressed lue with a meek em- 
brace ; 
And, bending back her head, looked 
up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

1 calmed her fears, and she was 

calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous bride. 

Coleridge. 



THE LILY OF NITHSDALE. 

She's gane to dwall in heaven, my 
lassie, 
She's gane to dwall in heaven; 
Ye're ower pure, quoth the voice of 
God, 
For dwalling out of heaven ! 

what' 11 she do in heaven, my 

lassie? 

what'll she do in heaven? — 
She'ir mix her ain tlioughts with an- 
gels' sangs. 

An' make them mair meet for 
heaven. 

Low tliere thou lies, my lassie, 

Low there thou lies ; 
A bonnier form ne'er went to the 
yird, 

Nor f rae it will arise ! 

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, lassie, 

Fu' soon I'll follow thee; 
Thou left me nought to covet ahin'. 

But took gudness' self wi' thee. 

1 looked on thy death-cold face, my 

lassie, 

1 looked on thy death-cold face ; 
Thou seemed a lilie new cut i' the 

bud. 
An' fading in its place. 

1 looked on thy death-shut eye, my 
lassie, 
1 looked on thy death-shut eye ; 



An' a lovelier light in the brow of 
lieaven 
Fell time shall ne'er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my 
lassie. 
Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 
But gane was tlie holy breatli of 
lieaven 
To sing the evening psalm. 

There's nouglit but dust now mine, 
lassie, 
There's nouglit but dust now 
mine ; 
My Saul's wi thee in the cauld grave, 
An' why should I stay behiii' ? 

Cunningham. 



THE PEASANT'S RETURN. 

And passing here through evening 

dew, . 
He hastened happy to her door. 
But found tlie old folk only two 
Witli no more footsteps on tlie floor 
To walk again below" the skies 
Where beaten patlis do fall and rise. 

For she w^er gone from eartlily eyes 
To be a-kept in darksome sleep 
Until the good again do rise 
A joy to souls they left to weep. 
The rose were dust that bound her 

brow ; 
The moth did eat her Sunday cape ; 
Her frock were out of fashion now ; 
Her slioes were dried up out of 

shape. 

William Baknes. 



ARIADNE. 

But I wol turne agalne to Ariadne, 
Tliat is with slepe for werinesse 

ytake, 
Ful sorrowfully her herte' may 
awake. 
Alas, for thee, mine herte hath 
pite; 
Right in the dawning tho awaketh 

slie. 
And gropeth in the bed, and found 
right nought: 
"Alas"," (quoth she) "that ever I 
was wrought, — 



76 



PARNASSUS. 



I am betrayed," and her haire to 

rent, 
And to the strande barefote fast she 

went. 
And cried: "Theseus, mine herte 

swete, 
Where be ye, that I may not with 

you mete ? 
And mlghte tlius with beestes ben 

yslaine." 
The hollow rockes answerede her 

againe. 
No man she saw, and yet shone the 

Moone, 
And hie upon a rocke she went 

soone, 
And sawe his barge sayling in the 

sea. 
Cold woxe her herte, and righte 

thus said she : 
"Meker tlien ye find I the beestes 

wilde." 
Hatli he not sinne, that lie her thus 

begilde? 
She cried, "O turne againe for 

routhe and sinne, 
Thy barge liath not all his melnie 

in/' 
Her kercliefe on a pole sticked she, 
Ascaunce he should it well ysee, 
And liim remembre that she was 

beliind. 
And turne againe, and on the stronde 

her find. 
But all for nought, — his way he 

is ygone, 
And down she fell a swone upon a 

stone, 
And up she riste, and kissed in all 

her care 
The steppes of his feete, there he 

hath fare, 
And to her bed right thus she spek- 

eth tho : 
"Thou bed," (quod she) "that 

hast received two. 
Thou shalt answere of two, and not 

of one. 
Where is tlie greater parte, away 

ygone ? 
Alas, where shall I wretched wight 

become ? 
For though so be that bote none here 

come. 
Home to my countrey dare I not for 

drede. 
I can my selfe in this case not 

yrede." 



What should I telle more her com- 
plaining, 

It is so long, it were an heavy 
thing ? 

In lier epistle, Naso telleth all, 

But shortly to the ende tell I shall. 

The goddes have her holpen for 
pite', 

And, in the signe of Taurus, men 
may see 

The stones of her crowne' shine 
clere, — 

I will no more speake of this ma- 
tere. 

Chaucer. 



I 



COMMON SENSE. 

SECOND THOUGHT. 

My mistress's eyes are nothing like 

the sun ; 
Coral is far more red than lier lips' 

red ; 
If snow be white, why then her 

breasts are dun ; 
If liairs be wires, black wires grow 

on her head. 
I have seen roses damask' d red and 

white, 
But no such roses see I in lier 

cheeks ; 
And in some perfumes is there more 

delight 
Than in the breatli that from my 

mistress reeks. 
I love to hear her speak, — yet well 

I know 
That music hath a far more pleasing 

sound ; 
I grant I never saw a goddess go, — 
My mistress, wlien she walks, treads 

on the ground ; 
And yet by Heaven, I think my 

love as rare 
As any she belie'd with false 
compare. 

Shakspeare. 



SENTENCES 

'Tis truth, (although this truth's a 
star 

Too deep-enskied for all to see). 
As poets of grammar, lovers are 

The well-heads of moralitv. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



77 



"Keep measure in love?" More 
light befall 

Tby sanctity, and make it less ! 
Be sure I will not love at all 

Where I may not love with excess. 

Who is the happy husband ? He 

Wlio, scanning his unwedded life, 
Thanks Heaven, with a conscience 
free, 
'Twas faithful to his future wife. 
Coventry Patmore. 



SONNET. 

Let me not to the marriage of true 

minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not 

love 
Which alters when it alteration 

finds. 
Or bends with the remover to re- 
move; 
O no ; it is an ever-fix^d mark, 
That looks on tempests, and is never 

shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering 

bark, 
Whose worth's unknown, although 

his height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy 

lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass 

come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours 

and weeks. 
But bears it out even to the edge of 

doom. 
K this be error, and upon me 

proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever 
loved. 

Shakspeare. 



THE PILOT'S DAUGHTEK. 

O'er western tides the fair Spring 
Day 
Was smiling back as it withdi'ew, 
And all the harbor, glittering gay. 

Returned a blithe adieu ; 
Great clouds above the hills and sea 
Kept brilliant watch, and air was 

free 
Where last lark firstborn star shall 
greet, — 



When, for the crowning vernal sweet, 

Among the slopes and crags I meet 

The pilot's pretty daughter. 

Round her gentle, happy face. 

Dimpled soft, and freshly fair, 
Danced with careless ocean grace 

Locks of auburn hair : 
As lightly blew the veering wind, 
They touched her cheeks, or waved 

behind. 

Unbound, unbraided, and unlooped ; 

Or when to tie her shoe she stooped. 

Below her chin the half-curls 

drooped. 

And veiled the pilot's daughter. 

Rising, she tossed them gayly back. 
With gesture infantine and brief, 
To fall around as soft a neck 

As the wild-rose's leaf. 
Her Sunday frock of lilac shade 
(That choicest tint) was neatly made, 
And not too long to hide from view 
The stout but noway clumsy shoe. 
And stockings' smoothly-fitting blue, 
That graced the pilot's daughter. 

With look half timid and half di'oll, 
And then with slightly downcast 
eyes. 
And blush that outward softly stole. 

Unless it were the skies 
Whose sun-ray shifted on her cheek, 
She turned when I began to speak ; 
But 'twas a brightness all her own 
That in her firm light step Avas 

shown. 
And the clear cadence of her tone ; 
The pilot's lovely daughter. 

Were it my lot (the sudden wish) 
To hand a pilot's oar and sail, 
Or haul the dripping moonlight mesh. 

Spangled with herring-scale ; 
By dying stars, how sweet 'twould be, 
And dawn-blow freshening the sea. 
With weary, cheery pull to shore, 
To gain my cottage home once more. 
And clasp, before I reach the door. 
My love, the pilot's daughter. 

This element beside my feet 
Allures, a tepid wine of gold ; 

One touch, one taste, dispels the 
cheat 
'Tis salt and nipping cold: 

A fisher's hut, the scene perforce 



78 



PARNASSUS. 



Of narrow thoughts and manners 

coarse, 
Coarse as the curtains that beseem 
With net-festoons the smolvy beam, 
Would never lodge my favorite 
dream, 
E'en with my pilot's daughter. 

To the large riches of the earth. 

Endowing men in their own spite, 
The poor, by privilege of birth, 
Stand in the closest right. 
Yet not alone the palm grows dull 
With clayey delve and watery pull : 
And this for me, — or hourly pain. 
But could I sink and call it gain ? 
Unless a pilot true, 'twere vain 
To wed a pilot's daughter. 

Like her, perhaps ? — but ah ! I said, 
Much wiser leave such thoughts 

alone. 
So may thy beauty, simple maid, 
Be mine, yet all thine own. 
Joined in my free contented love 
With companies of stars above ; 
Who, from their throne of airy 

steep. 
Do kiss these ripples as they creep 
Across the boundless, darkening 

deep, — 
Low voiceful wave ! hush soon to 

sleep 
The gentle pilot's daughter. 

Allingham. 



SONNET. 

So am I as the rich, whose blessed 
key 

Can bring him to his sweet up- 
locked treasure. 

The which he will not every hour 
survey. 

For blunting the fine point of sel- 
dom pleasure. 

Therefore are feasts so solemn and 
so rare, 

Since seldom coming, in the long 
year set. 

Like stones of worth they thinly 
placed are. 

Or captain jewels in the carcanet. 

So is the time that keeps you, as my 
chest. 

Or as the wardrobe which the robe 
doth hide, 



To make some special instant special- 
blest, 
By new unfolding his imprison' d 
pride. 
Blessed are you, whose worthi- 
ness gives scope. 
Being had, to triumph, being 
lack'd, to hope. 

Shakspeare. 



SYMPATHY. 

Lately, alas 1 1 knew a gentle boy, 
Whose features all were cast in 

Virtue's mould. 
As one she had designed for Beavity's 

toy. 
But after manned him for her own 

stronghold. 

On every side he open was as day. 
That you might see no lack of 

strength within ; 
For walls and ports do only serve 

alway 
For a pretence to feebleness and sin. 

Say not that Caesar was victorious, 
With toil and strife who stormed 

the House of Fame, 
In other sense this youth was 

glorious. 
Himself a kingdom whereso'er he 

came. 

No strength went out to get him 

victory, 
When all was income of its own 

accord ; 
For where he went none other was 

to see. 
But all were parcel of their noble lord. 

He forayed like the siibtle haze of 

summer. 
That stilly shows fresh landscapes 

to our eyes, 
And revolutions works without a 

murmur. 
Or rustling of a leaf beneath the skies. 

So was I taken unawares by this, 
1 quite forgot my homage to confess ; 
Yet now am forced to know, though 

hard it is, 
I might have loved him, had I 

loved him less. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



731 



Each moment as we nearer drew to 

each, 
A stern respect withheld us further 

yet, 

So that we seemed beyond each 

other's reach, 
And less acquainted than when first 

we met. 

We two were one while we did 

sympathize, 
So could we not the simplest bargain 

drive ; 
And what avails it, now that we are 

wise. 
If absence doth this doubleness 

contrive ? 

Eternity may not the chance repeat ; 
But I must tread my single way alone, 
In sad remembrance that we once 

did meet, 
And know that bliss irrevocably gone. 

The spheres henceforth my elegy 

shall sing. 
For elegy has other subject none ; 
Each strain of music in my ears 

shall ring 
Knell of departure from that other 

one. 

Make haste and celebrate my trage- 
dy; 

With fitting strain resound, ye woods 
and fields ; ^ 

Sorrow is dearer in such case to me 

Thau all the joys other occasion 
yields. 



Is't then too late the damage to 

repair ? 
Distance, forsooth, from my weak 

grasp has reft 
The empty husk, and clutched the 

useless tare, 
But in my hands the wheat and 

kernel left. 

If I but love that virtue which he is, 

Though it be scented in the morning 
air, 

Still shall we be truest acquaint- 
ances. 

Nor mortals know a sympathy more 
rare. 

Thoreau. 



MY PLAYMATE. 

The pines were dark on Kamoth 
hill, 
Their song was soft and low ; 
The blossoms in the sweet May 
wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet, 
The orchard birds sang clear : 

The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seemed of all the year. 

For, more to me than birds or 
flowers. 
My playmate left her home, 
And took with her the laughing 
spring. 
The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 
She laid her hand in mine : 

What more could ask the bashful 
boy 
Who fed her father's kine? 

She left us in the bloom of May : 
The constant years told o'er 

Their seasons with as sweet May 
morns ; 
But she came back no more. 

I walk with noiseless feet the round 

Of uneventful years : 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 

And reap the autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 

Her summer roses blow : 
The dusky children of the sun 

Before her come and go. 

There haply with her jewelled hands 
She smooths her silken gown, — 

No more the homespun lap wherein 
I shook the walnuts down. 

The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 
The brown nuts on the hill, 

And still the May-day flowers make 
sweet 
The woods of FoUymill. 

The lilies blossom in the pond; 

The bird builds in the tree ; 
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 

The slow song of the sea. 



7.^c 



80 



PARNASSUS. 



I wonder if she thinks of them, 
And how the old time seems ; 

If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice : 
Does she remember mine ? 

And what to her is now the boy 
Who fed her father's kine? 

What cares she that the orioles build 
For other eyes than ours ; 

That other hands with nuts are filled, 
And other laps with flowers ? 

O playmate in the golden time ! 

Our mossy seat is green ; 
Its fringing violets blossom yet ; 

The old trees o'er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and 
fern 

A sweeter memory blow ; 
And there in spring the veeries sing 

The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are moaning like the sea, — 

The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee. 

Whittiee. 



DIVIDED. 



An empty sky, a world of heather. 
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ; 

We two among them wading together. 
Shaking out honey, treading per- 
fume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover. 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our 
feet. 
Crowds of larks at their matins hang 
over, 
Thanking the Lord for a life so 
sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple 
favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden 
ring, 
'Twixt the two brown butterflies 
waver, 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 



We two walk till the purple dieth, 
And short dry grass under foot is 
brown. 
But one little streak at a distance 
lieth 
Green like a ribbon to prank the 
down. 



Over the grass we stepped unto it. 
And God he knoweth how blithe 
we were ! 
Never a voice to bid us eschew it : 
Hey the green ribbon that showed 
so fair ! 

Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled 
beside it. 
We parted the grasses dewy and 
sheen : 
Drop over drop there filtered and 
slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled 
between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, 

Light was our talk as of faSry 

bells; 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to 

us 

Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in hand while the sun peered 
over, 
We lapped the grass on that young- 
ling spring ; 
Swept back its rushes, smoothed its 
clover. 
And said, "Let us follow it west- 
ering." 



A dappled sky, a world of meadows, 
Circling above us the black rooks 

fly 

Forward, backward; lo their dark 
shadows 
Flit on the blossoming tapestry ; 

Flit on the beck ; for her long grass 
parteth 
As hair from a maid's bright eyes 
blown back : 
And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth 
His flattering smile on her way. 
ward track. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



81 



6ing on! we sing in the glorious 
weather 
Till one steps over the tiny strand, 
So narrow, in sooth, that still to- 
gether 
On either brink we go hand in 
hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands 
must sever. 
On either margin, our songs all done, 
We move apart, while she singeth 
ever. 
Taking the course of the stooping 
sun. 

He prays, "Come over," — I may 
not follow ; 
I cry, '* Eetum," — but he cannot 
come : 
We speak, we laugh, but with voices 
hollow ; 
Our hands are hanging, our hearts 
are numb. 



A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 
A little talking of outward things : 

The careless beck is a merry dancer. 
Keeping sweet time to the air she 
sings. 

A little pain when the beck grows 
wider ; 
" Cross to me now; for her wave- 
lets swell;" 
*' I may not cross," — and the voice 
beside her 
Faintly reacheth, though heeded 
well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no returning ; 
No second crossing that ripple's 
flow: 
"Come to me now, for the west is 
burning ; 
Come ere it darkens." — " Ah, no ! 
ah, no!" 

Then cries of pain, and arms out- 
reaching. 
The beck gi-ows wider and swift 
and deep : 
Passionate words as of one beseech- 
ing: 
The loud beck drowns them: we 
walk, and weep. 



A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 

A tired queen with her state 

oppressed. 

Low by rushes and swordgrass 

stooping. 

Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 

The desert heavens have felt her 
sadness ; 
Her earth will weep her some 
dewy tears ; 
The wild beck ends lier tune of 
gladness. 
And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 

We two walk on in our grassy places 
On either marge of the moonlit 
flood, 
With the moon's own sadness in our 
faces. 
Where joy is withered, blossom 
and bud. 

VI. 

A shady freshness, chafers whirring; 

A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring ; 

A cloud to the eastward snowy as 
curds. 

Bare grassy slopes where kids are 
tethered, 
Bound valleys lilie nests all ferny- 
lined, 
Round hills, witli fluttering tree-tops 
feathered. 
Swell high in their freckled robes 
behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a 
quiver, 
When golden gleams to the tree- 
tops glide ; 
A flashing edge for the milk-white 
river. 
The beck, a river — with still sleek 
tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as 
silver 
On she goes under fruit-laden 
trees : 
Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyal 
ties. 



82 



PARNASSUS. 



Glitters the dew, and shines the 
river, 
Up comes the lily and dries her 
bell; 
But two are walking apart forever, 
And wave their hands for a mute 
farewell. 



A braver swell, a swifter sliding; 
The river hasteth, her banks re- 
cede. 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 
Bear down the lily, and drown the 
reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing 

(Shouts of mariners winnow the 

air). 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed 

so fair. 

While, O my heai't! as white sails 
shiver, 
And clouds are passing, and banks 
stretch wide, 
How hard to follow, with lips that 
quiver. 
That moving speck on the far-off 
side. 

Farther, farther ; I see it, know it — 
My eyes brim over, it melts away : 

Only my heart to my heart shall 
show it 
As I walk desolate day by day. 

VIII. 

And yet I know past all doubting, 
truly, — 
A knowledge greater than grief 
can dim, — 
I know, as he loved, he will love me 
duly, — 
Yea better, e'en better than I 
love him. 

And as I walk by the vast calm 
river. 
The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, " Thy breadth and thy depth 
forever 
Are bridged by his thoughts that 
cross to me." 

Jean Inoelow. 



QUA CUESUM VENTUS. 






As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
Are scarce, long leagues apart, 
descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the 

breeze, 

And all the darkling hours they 

plied. 

Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 

By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
Of those whom, year by year un- 
changed, 
Brief absence joined anew to feel. 
Astounded, soul from soul es- 
tranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were 
filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered : 
Ah, neither blame, for neither willed. 
Or wist, what first with dawn ap- 
peared ! 

To veer, how vain! On, onward 
strain. 
Brave barks! In light, in dark- 
ness too. 
Through winds and tides cue com- 
pass guides, — 
To that, and your own selves, be 
true. 

But O blithe breeze, and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest part- 
ing past. 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last ! 

One port, methought, alike they 
sought. 
One purpose hold where'er they 
fare, — 

bounding breeze, O rushing seas. 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 

Clougb. 

SUNDERED. 

1 CHAr,i,ENGE not the oracle 
That drove you from my board ; 

I bow before the dark decree 
That scatters as J. hoard. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



83 



You vanished like the sailing ship 

That rides far out at sea. 
I murmur as your farewell dies 

And your form floats from me ; 

All ! ties are sundered in this hour: 

No tide of fortune rare 
Shall bring the heart I owned before, 

AjkI my love's loss repair. 

When voyagers make a foreign port, 
And leave their precious prize, 

Returning home they bear for 
freight 
A bartered merchandise. 

Alas ! Wlien you come back to me, 
And come not as of yore. 

But with your alien wealth and peace, 
Can we be lovers more ? 

I gave you up to go your ways, 

O you whom I adored ! 
Love hath no ties, but Destiny 

Shall cut them with a sword. 

Sidney H. Mokse. 



LOVE AGAINST LOVE. 

As unto blowing roses summer 

dews. 
Or morning's amber to the tree-top 

choirs. 
So to my bosom are the beams that 

use 
To rain on me from eyes that love 

inspires. 
Your love, — vouchsafe it, royal- 
hearted Few, 
And I will set no common price 

thereon, 
O, I Avill keep, as heaven his holy 

blue. 
Or night her diamonds, that dear 

treasure v.'on. 
But aught of inward faith must I 

forego. 
Or miss one drop from truth's bap- 
tismal hand, 
Think pooi-er thoughts, pray cheaper 

prayers, and grow 
Less worthy trust, to meet your 

heart's demand, — 
Farewell ! Your wish I for your sake 

deny: 
Rebel to love in truth to love am I. 
D. A. Wasson. 



INBORN ROYALTY. 

O THOU goddess. 

Thou divine Nature, how thyself 
thou blazon' St 

In these two princely boys ! They 
are as gentle 

As zephyrs, blowing below the vio- 
let. 

Not wagging his sweet head: and 
yet as rough. 

Their royal blood enchafed, as the 
rud'st wind. 

That by the top doth take the 
mountain pine, 

And make him stoop to the vale. 
'Tis wonderful 

That an invisible instinct should 
frame them 

To royalty unlearned ; honor un- 
taught ; 

Civility not seen from other ; valor, 

That wildly grows in them, but 
yields a crop 

As if it had been sowed ! 

Shakspeake: Ci/mbeline. 



GENTILITY. 

But for ye speken of such gentil- 

lesse, 
As is descended out of old richesse. 
That therfore shullen ye be gentil- 

men, — 
Such arrogance n'is not worth an hen. 
Look who that is most virtuous 

alway, 
Prive and ajjart, and most entendeth 

aye 
To do the gentil dedes that he can. 
And take him for the greatest gen- 

tilman. 
Christ wol we claime of him our 

gentillesse. 
Not of our elders for their old rich- 
esse: 
For though they gave us all their 

heritage, 
For which we claim to be of high 

parage, 
Yet may they not bequethen, for 

no thing, 
To none of us, their virtuous living. 
That made them c;entilmen called to 

be, 
And bade us follow them in such 

degree. 



84 



PARNASSFS. 



"Wei can the wise poet of Flor- 
ence, 
That highte Dant, speken of this 

sentence : 
Lo, in such maner rime is Dante's 

tale. 
Fill selde upriseth by his branches 

smale 
Prowesse of man, for God of his 

goodnesse 
Will that we claime of him our gen- 

tillesse : 
For of our elders may we nothing 

claime 
But temporal thing, that man may 

hurt and maime, 
" Eke every wight wot this as wel 

as I, 
If gentillesse were planted natur- 

elly 
Unto a certain linage down the line, 
Prive and apart, then wol they never 

fine 
To don of gentillesse the faire of- 
fice, 
They mighten do no vilanie or vice. 
" Take fire and beare it into the 

derkest hous 
Betwixt this and the mount of Cau- 
casus, 
And let men shut the dores, and go 

thenne, 
Tet <Fol the fire as faire lie and 

brenne 
As twenty thousand men might it 

behold ; 
His office naturel ay wol it hold, 
Up peril of my lif, til that it die. 
" Here may ye see wel, how that 

genterie 
Is not annexed to possession, 
Sitli folk ne don their operation 
Alway, as doth the fire, lo, in his 

kind. 
For God it wot, men may full often 

find 
A lorde's son do shame and vilanie. 
And he that wol have prize of his 

genterie. 
For he was boren of a gentil house, 
And had his elders noble and virtu- 
ous, 
And n'ill himselveu do no gentil 

dedes, 
Ne folwe his gentil auncestrie, that 

dead is. 
He n'is not gentil, be he duke or 

erl: 



For vilains' sinful dedes make a 

churl. 
For gentillesse n'is but the renomee 
Of thine auncestres, for their high 

bounte'e, 
Which is a strange thing to thy per- 

soue : 
Thy gentillesse cometh fro God 

alone. 
Than cometh our very gentillesse of 

grace. 
It was no thing bequethed us with 

our place. 

Chaucek. 



BEAUTY. 

So every spirit, as it is most pure, 
And hath in it the more of heaven- 
ly light, 
So it the fairer body doth procure 
To habit in, and it more fairly diglit 
With cheerful grace and amiable 

sight; 
For of the soul the body form doth 

take ; 
For soul is form, and doth the body 
make. 

Therefore wherever that thou dost 
behold 

A comely corpse, with beauty fair 
endued. 

Know this for certain, that the same 
doth hold 

A beauteous soul, with fair condi- 
tions thewed, 

Fit to receive the seed of virtue 
strewed ; 

For all that fair is, is by nature good ; 

That is a sign to know the gentle 
blood. 

Yet oft it falls that many a gentle 
mind 

Dwells in deformed tabernacle 
drowned. 

Either by chance, against the course 
of kind, 

Or through unaptnesse in the sub- 
stance found. 

Which it assumed of some stubborne 
ground, 

That will not yield unto her form's 
direction, 

But is perform'd with some foul im- 
perfection. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



85 



A.nd oft it falls (aye me, the more to 
rue!) 

That goodly beauty, albeit heavenly 
born, 

Is foulabus'd, and that celestial hue, 

Which doth the world with her de- 
light adorn, 

Made but the bait of sin, and sin- 
ners' scorn, 

Wliilst every one doth seek and sue 
to have it, 

But every one doth seek but to de- 
prave it. 

Yet nathemore is that faire beauty's 

blame. 
But theirs that do abuse if unto ill : 
Nothing so good, but that through 

guilty shame 
May be corrupt, and wrested unto 

will: 
Nathelesse the soule is fair and 

beauteous still, 
However fleshe's fault it filthy make ; 
For things immprtal no corruption 

take. 

Spenseb. 



UNA AND THE LION. 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome 

way. 
From her unhasty beast she did 

alight ; 
And on the grass her dainty limbs 

did lay. 
In secret shadow far from all men's 

sight ; 
From her fair head her fillet she un- 

dight, 
And laid her stole aside; her angel's 

face 
As the great eye of heaven shined 

bright. 
And made a sunshine in the shady 

place ; 
Did never mortal eye behold such 

heavenly gi-ace. 

It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lion rushed suddenly. 
Hunting full greedy after savage 

blood. 
Soon as the royal virgin he did spy, 
With gaping mouth at her ran gree- 
dily, 



To have at once devoured her tender 
corse ; 

But to the prey when as he drew 
more nigh. 

His bloody rage assuaged with re- 
morse, 

And with the sight amazed, forgat 
his furious force. 

Instead thereof, he kissed her weary 
feet, 

And licked her lily hands with fawn- 
ing tongue, 

As he her wronged innocence did 
weet. 

Oh! how can beauty master the 
most wrong, 

And simple truth subdue avenging 
strong ! 

Whose yielded pi'ide and proud sub- 
mission, 

Still dreading death, when she had 
marked long. 

Her heart 'gan melt in great com- 
passion, 

And drizzling tears did shed for pure 
affection. 

"The lion, lord of every beast in 

field," 
Quoth she, "his princely puissance 

doth abate, 
And mighty proud to humble weak 

does yield 
Forgetful of the hungry rage, which 

late 
Him pricked, in pity of my sad es- 
tate : — 
But he, my lion, and my noble lord, 
How does he find in cruel heart to 

hate 
Her that him loved, and ever most 

adored 
As the god of my life ? Why hath 

he me abhorred?" 

Redounding tears did choke th' end 
of her plaint, 

"Wliich softly echoed from the neigh- 
bor wood ; 

And sad to see her sorrowful con- 
straint 

The kingly beast upon her gazing 
stood ; 

With pity calmed, down fell his an- 
gry mood. 

At last, in close heart shutting up 
her pain, 



86 



PARNAaSUS. 



Arose the virgin, born of heavenly- 
brood, 
And to her snowy palfrey got again 
To seek her strayed champion if she 
might attain. 

The lion would not leave her deso- 
late, 

But with her went along, as a strong 
guard 

Of her chaste person, and a faithful 
mate. 

Still, when she slept, he kept both 
watch and ward ; 

And, when she waked, he waited 
diligent, 

With humble service to her will pre- 
pared : 

From her fair eyes he took com- 
mandment 

And ever by her looks conceived her 
intent. 

Spenseb. 



WHEN I DO COUNT THE 
CLOCK. 

When I do count the clock that tells 

the time, 
And see the brave day sunk in hide- 
ous night ; 
When I behold the violet past 

prime, 
And sable curls all silvered o'er with 

white ; 
When lofty trees I see barren of 

leaves. 
Which erst from heat did canopy the 

herd, 
And summer's green, all girded up 

in sheaves. 
Borne on the bier with white and 

bristly beard ; 
Then of thy beauty do I question 

make, 
That thou among the wastes of time 

must go, 
Since sweets and beauties do them- 
selves forsake, 
A-nd die as fast as they see others 

grow ; 
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe 

can make defence, 
Save breed, to brave him when he 

takes thee hence. 

SHAKSPEAliK. 



SONNET. 

To me, fair friend, you never can be.1 

old, 
For as you were, when first your eye ' 

I eyed, 
Such seems your beauty still. Three 

winters cold 
Have from the forest shook three 

summers' pride; 
Three beauteous springs to yellow 

autumn turned. 
In process of the seasons have I 

seen. 
Three April perfumes in three hot 

Junes burned. 
Since first I saw you fresh which yet 

are green. 
Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial- 
hand. 
Steal from his figure, and no pace 

perceived ; 
So your sweet hue, which methinks 

still doth stand. 
Hath motion, and n^ne eye may be 

deceived. 
For fear of which, hear this, thou 

age unbred, 
Ere you were born, was beauty's 

summer dead. 

Shakspeaee. 

Truth needs no color with his color 

fixed, 
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to 

lay; 
But best is best, if never intermix' d. 
Shakspeake. 

HYMN TO THE GRACES. 

When I love, as some have told, 
Love I shall when I am old, 
O ye Graces ! make me fit 
For the welcoming of it. 
Clean my rooms. as temples be, 
To entertain that deity ; 
Give me words wherewith to woo, 
Suppling and successful too ; 
Winning postures, and withal. 
Manners each way musical ; 
Sweetnesse to allay my sour 
And unsmooth behavior: 
For I know you have the skill 
Vines to prune, though not to kill ; 
And of any wood ye see, 
You can make a Mercury. 

Herkick. 



HUlVIAJSr LIFE. 



87 



SONG. 

How near to good is what is fair, 

Wbich we no sooner see, 

But with the lines and outward air 

Our senses taken be. 

We wisli to see it still, and prove 

AVliat ways we may deserve ; 
We court, we praise, we naore than 
love, 

We are not grieved to serve. 

Ben Jonson. 



MY CHAKMER. 

Sweetness, truth, and every grace 
Which time and use are wont to 

teach, 
The eye may in a moment reach 
And read distinctly in her face. 

Some other nymphs with colors faint 
And pencil slow, may Cupid paint. 
And a weak heart in time destroy; 
She has a stamp, and prints the boy. 
Wallek. 



THE POETRY OF DRESS. 

A sweet disorder in the dress 

Kindles in clothes a wantonness : — 
A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction, — 



An erring lace, which here and there 
Inthralls the crimson stomacher, — 
A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
Ribbons to flow confusedly, — 
A winning wave, deserving note. 
In the tempestuous petticoat, — 
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility, — 
Do more bewitch me, than when 

art 
Is too precise in every part. 

Herbick. 



FREEDOM IN DRESS. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest. 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still per- 
fumed, — 

Lady, it is to be presumed. 

Though art's hid causes are not 
found. 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, — 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art ; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my 
heart. 

Ben Jonson. 



III. 
INTELLECTUAL. 

MEMORY. —INSPIRATION. —IMAGINATION. 
FANCY. — MUSIC. — ART. — MOODS. 



" Quotque aderant vs^tes, rebar adesse Deos." — Ovid. 



" By pain of heart, now checked, and now impelled, 
The intellectual power from words to things 
Went sounding on, — a dim and perilous way." — Woedswokth. 



i 

I 



i:n'telleotual. 



THOUGHT. 

Messenger, art thou the king, 

or I? 
Thou dalKest outside the palace gate 
Till on thine idle armor lie the late 
And heavy dews: the morn's bright, 

scornful eye 
Reminds thee; then, in subtle 

mockery, 
Thou smilest at the window where I 

wait. 
Who bade thee ride for life. In 

empty state 
My days go on, while false hours 

prophesy 
Thy quick return; at last, in sad 

despair, 

1 cease to bid thee, leave thee free 

as air ; 
When lo, thou stand' st before me 

glad and fleet. 
And lay'st undreamed-of treasures 

at my feet. 
Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to 

buy, 
I am too poor. Thou art the king, 

not I. 

H. H. 



QUESTIONINGS. 

Hath this world, without me 

wrought. 
Other substance than my thought? 
Lives it by my sense alone, 
Or l)y essence of its own, 
Will its life, with mine begun. 
Cease to be when that is done. 
Or another consciousness 
With the selfsame forms impress ? 

Doth yon fire-ball, poised in air, 
Hang by my pennission there ? 



Are the clouds that wander by 
But the offspring of mine eye, 
Born with every glance I cast, 
Perishing when that is past ? 
And those thousand, thousand eyes, 
Scattered through the twinkling 

skies, 
Do they draw their life from mine. 
Or, of their own beauty shine ? 

Now I close my eyes, my ears, 

And creation disappears ; 

Yet if I but speak the word, 

All creation is restored. 

Or — more wonderful — within, 

New creations do begin ; 

Hues more bright and forms more 

rai-e. 
Than reality doth wear. 
Flash across my inward sense, 
Born of the mind's omnipotence. 

Soul ! that all inf ormest, say ! 
Shall these glories pass away ? 
Will those planets cease to blaze 
Wlien these eyes no longer gaze ? 
And the life of things be o'er. 
When these pulses beat no more ? 

Thought! that in me works and 

lives, — 
Life to all things living gives, — 
Art thou not thyself, perchance, 
But the universe in trance ? 
A reflection inly flung 
By that world thou f anciedst sprung 
From thyself, — thyself a dream, — 
Of the world's thinking thou the 

theme ? 

Be it thus, or be thy birth 
From a source above the earth, — 
Be tliou matter, be thou mind, 
In thee alone myself I find. 
And through thee alone, for me, 
91 



92 



PARNASSUS. 



Hath this world reality. 
Therefore, in thee will I live, 
To thee all myself will give. 
Losing still, that I may find 
This bounded self in boundless mind. 
F. H. Hedge. 



MEMOKT. 

In sweet dreams softer than un- 
broken rest 

Thou leddest by the hand thine 
infant Hope. 

The eddying of her garments caught 
from thee 

The light of thy great presence ; and 
the cope 
Of the half-attained futurity, 
Though deep not fathomless. 

Was cloven with the million stars 
which tremble 

O'er the deep mind of dauntless 
infancy. 

Sure she was nigher to heaven's 

spheres. 
Listening the lordly music flowing 
from 
The illimitable years. 

Tennyson. 



MEMORY. 



I HEAR thy solemn anthem fall. 
Of richest song, upon my ear. 

That clothes thee in thy golden pall. 
As this wide sun flows on the mere. 

Away — 'tis Autumn in the land. 
Though Summer decks the green 
pine's bough, 
Its spires are plucked by thy white 
hand, — 
I see thee standing by me now. 

I dress thee in the withered leaves. 
Like forests when their day is 
done, 

I bear thee as the wain its sheaves, 
Wliich crisply rustle in the sun. 

A- thousand flowers enchant the gale 
With perfume sweet as love's first 
kiss, 



And odors in the landscape sail. 
And charm the sense with sudden 
bliss. 

But Fate, who metes a different way 
To me, since I was falsely sold. 

Hath gray-haired turned the sunny 
day, 
Bent its high form, and made it old. 

Come Time, come Death, and blot 
my doom 
With feller woes, if they be thine ; 
Clang back thy gates, sepulchral 
tomb. 
And match thy barrenness with 
mine. 

O moaning wind along the shore. 
How faint thy sobbing accents 
come! 
Strike on my heart with maddest roar. 
Thou meet' St no discord in this 
home. 

Sear, blistering sun, these temple 
veins ; 
Blind, icy moon, these coldest eyes ; 
And drench me through, ye winter 
rains, — 
Swell, if ye can, my miseries. 

Those dark deep orbs are meeting 
mine, 
That white hand presses on my 
brow. 
That soft, sweet smile I know, 'tis 
thine, — 
I see thee standing by me now. 

Channing. 



FOEESIGHT. 

No man is the lord of any thing 

Till he communicate his parts to 
others. 

Nor doth he of himself know them 
for aught 

Till he behold them formed in the 
applause 

Where they are extended, which, 
like an arch, reverberates 

The voice again ; or like a gate of steel, 

Fronting the sun, receives and ren- 
ders back 

His figure and his heart. 

Shakspeake. 



INTELLECTUAL. 



93 



ODE TO HIMSELF. 

Where dost thou cai-eless lie 
Buried in ease and sloth ? 

Knowledge that sleeps, doth die ; 

And this security, 
It is the common moth 

That eats on wits and arts, and so 
destroys them both. 

Arc all the Aonian springs 
Dried up ? lies Thespia waste ? 

Doth Clarius' harp want strings ? 

That not a nymph now sings ? 
Or droop they as disgraced 

To see their seats and bowers by 
chattering pies defaced ? 

If hence thy silence be. 

As 'tis too just a cause, — 
Let this thought quicken thee ; 
Minds that are great and free 

Should not on fortune pause ; 
'Tis crown enough to virtue still, 
her own applause. 

Ben Jonson. 



NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR 

VERSE. 

'Tis not every day that I 
Fitted am to prophesy ; 
No, but when the spirit fills 
The fantastic pannicles. 
Full of fire, then I write 
As the Godhead doth indite. 
Thus inraged, my lines are hurled. 
Like the Sibyl's through the world: 
Look how next the lioly fire 
Either slakes, or doth retire ; 
So the fancy cools, till when 
That brave spirit comes agen. 

Hebbick. 



THE PRAISE OF HOMER. 

O ! 'tis wondrous much 
Though nothing prosed, that the right 

virtuous touch 
Of a well Avritten soul to virtue 

moves. 
Nor have we sovils to purpose, if 

their loves 



Of fitting objects be not so in- 
flamed. 
How much, then, were this king- 
dom's main soul maimed 
To want this great inflamer of all 

powers 
That move in human souls! All 

realms but yours 
Are honored with them, and hold 

blest that State 
That have his works to read and 

contemplate. 
In which humanity to her height is 

raised ; 
Which all the world, yet none enough 

hath praised. 
Seas, earth, and heaven, he did in 

verse comprise, 
Outsung the Muses, and did equal- 
ize 
Their King Apollo; being so far 

from cause 
Of princes' light thoughts, that their 

gravest laws 
May find stuff to be fashioned by his 

lines. 
Tlirough all the pomp of kingdoms 

still he shines. 
And graceth all his gracers. Then 

let lie 
Your lutes and viols, and more 

loftily 
Make the heroics of your Homer 

sung ; 
To drums and trumpets set his angel 

tongue ; 
And, with the princely sport of 

hawks you use. 
Behold the kingly flight of his high 

muse. 
And see how, like the Phoenix, she 

renews 
Her age and starry feathers in your 

sun, 
Thousands of years attending ; every 

one 
Blowing the holy fire, throwing in 
Their seasons, kingdoms, nations, 

that have been 
Subverted in them ; laws, religions, 

all 
Offered to change, and greedy 

funeral. 
Yet still your Homer lasting, living, 

reigning, 
And proves how firm Truth builds 

in poets feigning. 

Geokge Chapman. 



94 



PARNASSUS. 



SONNET. 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP- 
MAN'S HOMER. 

Much have I travelled in the realms 

of gold, 
And many goodly states and king- 
doms seen ; 
Round many western islands have I 

been, 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been 

told 
That deep-browed Homer ruled as 

his demesne: 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud 

and bold : 
Then felt I like some watcher of the 

skies 
When a new planet swims into his 

ken; 
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle 

eyes 
He stared at the Pacific, — and all 

his men 
Looked at each other with a wild 

surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

Keats. 



SOCRATES. 

Night is fair Virtue's immemorial 

friend. 
The conscious moon through every 

distant age 
Has held a lamp to Wisdom, and let 

fall 
On Contemplation's eye her purging 

ray. 
The famed Athenian, he who wooed 

from heaven 
Philosophy the fair, to dwell with 

men, 
And form their manners, not inflame 

their pride ; 
While o'er his head, as fearful to 

molest 
His laboring mind, the stars in si- 
lence slide, 
And seem all gazing on their future 

guest, 
See him soliciting his ardent suit, 
In private audience ; all the livelong 

nisht 



Rigid in thought and motionless he 

stands, 
Nor quits his theme or posture, till 

the sun 
Disturbs his nobler intellectual 

beam. 
And gives him to the tumult of the 

world. 

Young. 



MORNING. 

Sleep is like death, and after sleep, 

The world seems new begun. 

Its earnestness all clear and deep. 

Its true solution won : 

White thoughts stand luminous and 

firm. 
Like statues in the sun. 
Refreshed from supersensuous 

founts, 
The soul to ijurer vision mounts. 

Allingham. 



INSPIRATION. 

If with light head erect I sing, 
Though all the Muses lend their force, 
From my poor love of any thing, 
The verse is weak and shallow as its 
source. 

But if with bended neck I grope, 
Listening behind me for my wit, 
With faith superior to hope. 
More anxious to keep back than 
forward it; 

Making my soul accomplice there 
Unto the flame my heart hath lit. 
Then will the verse forever wear, — 
Time cannot bend the line which 
God has writ. 

I hearing get, who had but ears. 
And sight, who had but eyes before ; 
I moments live, who lived but years, 
And truth discern, who knew but 
learning's lore. 

Now chiefly is my natal hour. 

And only now my prime of life. 

Of manhood's strength it is the 

flower, 
'Tis peace's end, and war's begin- 
ning strife. 



INTELLECTUAL. 



96 



Et comos in summer's broadest noon, 
By a gray wall, or some chance place, 
Unseasoning time, insulting June, 
And vexing day with its presuming 
face. 

1 will not doubt the love imtold 
Which not Tuy worth nor want hath 

bought. 
Which wooed me young, and wooed 

me old. 
And to this evening hath me 

brought. 

Thoreau. 



THE POET. 



all 



Thou hast learned the woes of 

the world 
From thine own longings and lone 

tears, 
And now thy broad sails are unfurled 
And all men hail thee with loud 

cheers. 

The flowing sunlight is thy home. 
The billows of the sea are thine, 
To all the nations shalt thou roam. 
Through every heart thy love shall 
shine. 

The subtlest thought that finds its 

goal 
Far, far beyond the horizon's verge, — 
Oh ! shoot it forth on arrows bold 
The thoughts of men on, on, to urge. 

Toil not to free the slave from 

chains. 
Think not to give the laborer rest, — 
[Jnless rich beauty fill the plains 
The free man wanders still unblest. 

All men can dig and hew rude stone. 
But thou must cp-rve the frieze above. 
And columned high through thee 

alone 
Shall rise our frescoed homes of love. 
C. S. T. 



INSPIRATION. 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till byhimsel' he learned to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's me- 
ander, 



And no think lang ; 
O sweet to stray and pensive ponder 
A heartfelt sang ! 

Burns. 



THE FLOWER, 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and 

clean 
Are thy i-eturns ! even as the flowers 
in spring ; 
To which, besides their own de- 
mean. 
The late-past frosts tributes of 
pleasure bring. 

Grief melts away 

Like snow in May, 

As if there were no such cold thing. 

Who would have thought my 

shrivelled heart 
Could have recovered greenness? 
It w^as gone 
Quite underground ; as flowers de- 
part 
To see their mother root, when they 
have blown ; 

Wliere they together 
All the hard weather, 
Dead to the world, keei5 house un- 
known. 

And now in age I bud again, 
After so many deaths I live and 
write ; 
I once more smell the dew and rain, 
And relish versing : O my only light, 
. It cannot be 
That I am he 
On whom thy tempests fell all night. 
Herbert. 



WRITING VERSES. 

Just now I've ta'en a fit of rhyme, 
My barmy noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summons : 
Hae ye a leisure moment's time 

To hear what's comin' ? 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for 

needfu' cash; 
Some rhyme to court the countra 

clash, 



96 



PABNASSUS. 



An' raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash ! 
I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my hickless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

An' damned my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Has blessed me wi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

Burns. 



THE MUSE. 

The Muse doth tell me where to bor- 
row 
Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; 
Makes the desolatest place 
To her presence be a grace ; 
And the blackest discontents 
Be her fairest ornaments. 
In my former days of bliss, 
Her divine skill taught me this, 
That, from every thing I saw, 
I could some invention draw ; 
And raise pleasure to her height. 
Through the meanest object's sight. 
By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least bough's rustling. 
By a daisy, whose leaves spread. 
Shut, when Titan goes to bed. 
Or a shady bush, or tree, 
She could more infuse in me. 
Than all Nature's beauties can 
In some other wiser man. 
By her help, I also now 
Make this churlish place allow 
Some things that may sweeten glad- 
ness, 
In the very gall of sadness. 
The dull loneness, the black shade. 
That these hanging vaults have 

made; 
The strange music of the waves 
Beating on these hollow caves ; 
This black den which rocks emboss 
Overgrown with eldest moss ; 
The rude portals which give light 
More to terror than delight 
This my chamber of Neglect, 
Walled about with Disrespect; 
From all these, and this dull air, 
A fit object for despair. 
She hath taught me by her might 
To draw comfort and delight. 
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
I will cherish thee for this ; 



Poesy, thou sweet' st content. 
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent, 
Though they as a trifle leave thee, 
Whose dull thoughts cannot con^ 

ceive thee, 
Though thou be to them a scorn 
Who to nought but earth are born ; 
Let my life no longer be 
Than I am in love with thee. 

Geokge Wither. 



THE POET. 

And also, beau sire, of other things, 
That is, thou haste no tidings 
Of Love's folk, if they be glade, 
Ne of nothing else' that God made, 
And not only fro far countree. 
That no tidings come to thee. 
Not of thy very neighbors. 
That dwellen almost at thy dores, 
Thou hearest neither that ne this, 
For when thy labor all done is. 
And hast made all thy reckonings 
Instead of rest and of new things. 
Thou goest home to thine house 

anone. 
And also dumbe as a stone. 
Thou sittest at another booke, 
Till fully dazed is thy looke, 
And livest thus as an hermite. 

Chaucer. 



PKAYER TO APOLLO. 

God of science and of light, 
Apollo through thy greate might. 
This littell last booke now thou gie,* 
Now that I will for maistrie. 
Here art potenciall be shewde. 
But for the rime is light and lewde, 
Yet make it somewhat agreeable, 
Though some verse f ayle in a sillable, 
And that I do no diligence, 
To shewe craft, but sentence, 
And if divine vertue thou 
Wilt helpe me to shewe now. 
That in my heed ymarked is, 
Lo, that is for to meanen this. 
The House of Fame for to disci'ive, — • 
Thou shalt see me go as blivet 
Unto the next laurel I see 
And kisse it, for it is thy tree, 
Now enter in my brest anon. 

Chaucer. 



* Guide. 



t Quickly. 



INTELLECTUAL. 



97 



THE CUCKOW AND THE 
NIGHTINGALE. 

I CAME to a laund of white and 

green, 
So faire one had I never in been, 
Tlie ground was green, ypowdred 

witli dai.sie, 
The flowres and tlie groves lilie hy, 
All greene and white, was nothing 

eles scene. 

There sate I downe among the faire 
flowres, 

And saw the birds trip out of hir 
bowrs. 

There as they rested them all the 
. night. 

They were so joyfull of the dayes 
light. 

They began of May for to done hon- 
ours. 

They coud that service all by rote, 
There was many a lovely note. 
Some sung loud as they had plained. 
And some in other manner voice 

yfained. 
And some all out with the full throte. 

They proyned hem, and made them 

right gay. 
And daunceden, and leapten on the 

spray. 
And evermore two and two in fere, 
Right so as they had chosen them to 

yere 
In Februere, upon saint Valentine's 

day. 

And the river that I sate upon. 
It made such a noise as it ran, 
Accordaunt with the birde's har- 
mony, 
Methoughtit was the best melody 
That mfght ben yheard of any mon. 

And for delite, I wote never how 
I fell in such a slomber and a swow, 
Not all asleepe, ne fully waking. 
And in that swow me thought I 

heard sing 
The sorry bird, the lewd cuckow. 

And that was on a tree right fast by. 
But who was then evill apaid but I ? 
"Now God" (quod I) "that died 
on the crois 

7 



Yeve sorrow on thee, and on thy 

lewde vols, 
Full little joy have I now of thy 

cry." 

And as I with the cuckow thus gan 

chide, 
I heard in the next bush beside 
A nightingale so lustely sing. 
That with her clere voice she made 

ring 
Through all the greene wood wide. 

"Ah, good nightingale'" (quoth I 

then) 
"A little hast thou ben too longe 

hen,* 
For here hath been the lewd cuckow, 
And songen songs rather than hast 

thou, 
I pray to God evil fire her bren." 

But now I wol you tell a wonder thing, 
As long as I lay in that swowning, 
Me thought I wist what the birds 

meant. 
And what they said, and what was 

their intent, 
And of their speech I had good 

knowing. 

There heard I the nightingale say, 
"Now, good cuckow, go somewhere 

away. 
And let us that can singen dwellen 

here, 
For every wight escheweth thee to 

hear. 
Thy songs be so elenge in good fay." 

"Wliat" (quod she) "what may 

thee alien now, 
It thinketh me, I sing as well as thou, 
For my song is both true and plaine, 
And though I cannot crakell so in 

vaine. 
As thou dost in thy throte, I wot 

never how. 

" And every wight may understande 

mee, 
But nightingale so may they not 

done thee ; 
For thou hast many a nice queint cry, 
I have thee heard saine, ocy, ocy, 
How might I know what tlui# 

should be?" 

* Hence. 



98 



PARNASSUS. 



"Ah foolvi," (quod she,) "wist thou 

not what it is 
When that I say, ocy, ocy, i/iois ? 
Then meane' I that I would wonder 

faine 
That all they were shamefully yslaine 
Thatmeanen ought againe' love amiss. 

" And also I would that all tho were 

dede 
That thinke not in love their life to 

lede, 
For whoso that wol not the God of 

love serve, 
I dare well say, he worthy is to sterve. 
And for that skill, ocy, ocy, I grede." 
Chaucek. 



STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, 
AND EAILWAYS. 

Motions and means, on land and sea 

at war 
With old poetic feeling, not for this, 
Shall ye, by poets even, be judged 

amiss ! 
Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er 

it mar 
The loveliness of Nature, prove a 

bar 
To the mind's gaining that pro- 
phetic sense 
Of future change, that point of 

vision whence 
May be discovered what in soul ye 

are. 
In spite of all that beauty may dis- 
own 
In your harsh features, Nature doth 

embrace 
Her lawful offspring in man's art; 

and Time, 
Pleased with your triumphs o'er his 

brother Space, 
Accepts from your bold hands the 

proffered crown 
Of hoije, and smiles on you with 

cheer sublime. 

WORDSVrORTH. 



SCALE OF MINDS. 

" Here might I pause, and bend lu 

reverence 
To Nature, and the power of 

human minds : 



To men as they are men within 

themselves. 
How oft high service is performed 

within, 
Wlien all the external man is rude 

in show : 
Not like a temple rich with pomp 

and gold, 
But a mere mountain chapel that 

protects 
Its simple worshippers from sun and 

shower ! 
Of these, said I, shall be my song; 

of these, 
If future years mature me for the task, 
Will I record the praises, making verse 
Deal boldly with substantial things, 

— in truth 
And sanctity of passion speak of these, 
That justice may be done, obeisance 

paid 
Where it is due. Thus haply shall 

I teach. 
Inspire, through unadulterated ears 
Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope ; 

my theme 
No other than the very heart of man, 
As found among the best of those 

who live. 
Not unexalted by religious faith, 
Nor uninformed by books, good books, 

though few, 
In Nature's presence: thence may I 

select 
Sorrow that is not sorrow, but 

delight, 
And miserable love that is not pain 
To hear of, for the glory that 

redounds 
Therefrom to human kind, and 

what we are. 
Be mine to follow with no timid step 
Where knowledge leads me ; it shall 

be my pride 
That I have dared to tread this holy 

ground, 
Speaking no dream, but things oracu- 
lar. 
Matter not lightly to be heard by 

those 
Wlio to the letter of the outward 

promise 
Do read the invisible soul : by men 

adroit 
In speech, and for communion with 

the world 
Accomplished, minds whose facul- 
ties are then 



Most active when tliey are most 

eloquent, 
And elevated most when most 

admired. 
Men may be found of other mould 

than these ; 
\Vlio are their own upholders, to 

themselves 
Encouragement, and energy, and 

will; 
Expressing liveliest thoughts in 

lively words, 
As native passion dictates. Others, 

too, 
There are, among the walks of 

homely life. 
Still higher, men for contemplation 

framed ; 
Shy, and unpractised in the strife 

of phrase. 
Meek men, whose very souls perhaps 

would sink 
Beneath them, summoned to such 

intercourse. 
Theirs is the language of the heav- 
ens, the power. 
The thought, the image, and the 

silent joy : 
Words are but uuder-agents in their 

souls ; 
^^Hien they are grasping with their 

greatest strength 
They do not breathe among them; 

this I speak 
In gratitude to God, who feeds our 

hearts 
For his own service, knoweth, lov- 

eth us. 
When we are unregarded by the 

world." 

WOKDSWORTH. 



INTELLECTUAL. 99 

PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. 



UNDER THE PORTRAIT 
MILTON. 



OF 



TiiKEE Poets, in three distant ages 
born, 

Greece, Italy, and England did 
adorn. 

The first in loftiness of thought sur- 
passed ; 

The next in majesty ; in both the last. 

The force of Nature could no fur- 
ther go : 

To make a third she joined the for- 
mer two. 

Dkyden. 

LOFC. 



As Memnon's marble harp renowned 

of old 
By fabling Nilus, to the quivering 

touch 
Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive 

string 
Consenting, sounded through the 

warbling air 
Unbidden strains; e'en so did 

Nature's hand 
To certain species of external things 
Attune the finer organs of the miml ; 
Sa the glad impulse of congenial 

powers. 
Or of sweet sound, or fair-propor- 
tioned form. 
The grace of motion, or the bloom 

of light. 
Thrills through imagination's tender 

frame. 
From nerve to nerve ; all naked and 

alive 
They catch the spreading rays ; till 

now the soul 
At length discloses every tuneful 

spring. 
To that harmonious movement from 

without, 
Responsive. Then the inexpressive 

strain 
Diffuses its enchantment; Fancy 

dreams 
Of sacred fountains and Elysian 

groves. 
And vales of bliss; the Intellectual 

Power 
Bends from his awful throne a 

wondering ear. 
And smiles; the passions gently 

soothed away. 
Sink to divine repose, and love and joy 
Alone are waking; love and joy 

serene 
As airs that fan the simamer. O 

attend. 
Whoe'er thou art whom these de- 
lights can touch, 
Wliose candid bosom the refining love 
Of nature warms; O, listen to my 

song, 
And I will guide thee to her favorite 

walks, 
And teach thy solitude her voice to 

hear, 
And point her loveliest features to 

thy view. 



100 



PAENASSUS. 



Say, why was man so eminently 

raised 
Amid tlie vast creation; wliy or- 
dained 
Througli life and death to dart his 

piercing eye, 
With thoughts beyond the limits of 

his frame, 
But that the Omnipotent might send 

him forth 
In sight of mortal and immortal 

powers, 
As on a boundless theatre to run 
The great career of justice ; to exalt 
His generous aim to all diviner 

deeds ; 
To chase each partial purpose from 

his breast; 
And through the mists of passion 

and of sense. 
And through the tossing tide of 

chance and pain. 
To hold his course unfaltering, while 

the voice 
Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep 

ascent 
Of nature, calls him to his high 

reward, 
The applauding smile of heaven? 

else wherefore bums. 
In mortal bosoms, this unquenched 

hope 
That breathes from day to day sub- 

limer things. 
And mocks possession? wherefore 

darts the mind, 
With such resistless ardor to embrace 
Majestic forms; impatient to be 

free, 
Spurning the gross control of wilful 

might ; 
Proud of the strong contention of 

her toils ; 
Proud to be daring ? Who but rather 

turns 
To heaven's broad fire his uncon- 
strained view. 
Than to the glimmering of a waxen 

flame ? 
Who that, from Alpine heights, his 

laboring eye 
Shoots round the wide horizon to 

survey 
Nilus or Ganges rolling his broad tide 
Through mountains, plains, through 

empires black with shade, 
A.nd continents of sand, — will turn 

his gaze 



To mark the windings of a scanty 

rill 
That murmurs at his feet? The 

high-born soul 
Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring 

wing 
Beneath its native quarry. Tired of 

earth ' 
And this diurnal scene, she springs 

aloft. 
Through fields of air pursues the 

flying storm ; 
Kides on the volleyed lightning 

through the heavens ; 
Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the 

northern blast, 
Sweeps the long track of day. Then 

high she soars 
The blue profound, and hovering 

o'er the sun 
Beholds him pouring the redundant 

stream 
Of light: beholds the unrelenting 

sway 
Bend the reluctant planets to absolve 
The fated rounds of time. Thence 

far effused 
She darts her swiftness up the long 

career 
Of devious comets ; through its burn- 
ing signs 
Exulting circles the perennial wheel 
Of nature, and looks back on all the 

stars, 
Whose blended light, as with a milky 

zone. 
Invests the orient. Now amazed she 

views 
The empyreal waste, where happy 

spirits hold, 
Beyond this concave heaven, their 

calm abode ; 
And fields of radiance, whose unfad- 
ing light 
Has travelled the profound six thou- 
sand years. 
Nor yet arrived in sight of mortal 

things. 



Nature's care, to all her children 

just. 
With richer treasures and an ampler 

state. 
Endows at large whatever happy man 
Will deign to use them. His the 

city's pomp, 
The rural honors his: whate'er 

adorns 



INTELLECTUAL. 



101 



The princely dome, the coluiuu and 
the arch, 

The hreathing marbles and the sculp- 
tured gold, 

Beyond the proud possessor's nar- 
row claim. 

His tuneful breast enjoys. For him 
the Spring 

Distils her dews, and from the silken 
gem 

His lucid leaves unfolds ; for him the 
hand 

Of Autumn tinges every fertile 
branch 

With blooming gold, and blushes like 
the morn. 

Each passing Hour sheds tribute 
from her wings, 

And still new beauties meet his 
lonely walk. 

And loves unfelt attract him. 

Look, then, abroad through Nature, 
to the range 

Of planets, suns, and adamantine 
spheres. 

Wheeling unshaken through the 
Void immense. 

And speak, O man ! does this capa- 
cious scene 

With half that kindlmg majesty 
dilate 

Thy strong conception, as when 
Brutus rose 

Refulgent from the stroke of Caesar's 
fate. 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his 
arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thun- 
der, called aloiid 

On Tully's name, and shook his 
crimson steel. 

And bade the Father of his Country, 
hail ! 

For lo! the tyrant prostrate in the 
dust, 

And Rome again is free ! 

Akenside. 



FAME. 

Hek house is all of Echo made 
Where never dies the sound*, 

And as her brows the clouds invade, 
Her feet do strike the ground. 

Ben Jonson. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king 
By this still hearth, among these 

barren crags, 
Matched with an aged wife, I mete 

and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 

know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees: all times I have 

enjoyed 
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both 

with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, 

and when 
Through scudding drifts the rainy 

Hyades 
Vext the dim sea: I am become a 

name; 
For always roaming with a hungry 

heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities 

of men 
And manners, climates, councils, 

governments. 
Myself not least, but honored of them 

all; 
And drunk delight of battle with my 

peers. 
Far on the ringing plains of windy 

Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch where- 
through 
Gleams that untravelled world, whose 

margin fades 
Forever and forever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an 

end, 
To rust unburnished, not to shine in 

use! 
As though to breathe were life. Life 

piled on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains: but every hour is 

saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it 

were 
For some three suns to store and 

hoard myself. 
And this gray spirit yearning in 

desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking 

star 



102 



PARNASSUS. 



Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telema- 

cluis, 
To wliom I leave the sceptre and the 

isle — 
Well loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to 

make mild 
A rugged people, and through soft de- 
grees 
Subdue them to the useful and the 

good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the 

sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his 

work, I mine. 
There lies the port: the vessel 

puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. 

My mariners, 
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, 

aud thought with me, — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and 

opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads, — you 

and I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor aud his 

toil; 
Death closes all : but something ere 

the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet 

be done 
Not unbecoming men that strove 

with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the 

rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon 

climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices. 

Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer 

world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order, 

smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my pur- 
pose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the 

baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy 

Isles, 



And see the great Achilles, whom 

we knew. 
Though much is taken, much abides ; 

and though 
We are not now that strength which 

in old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which 

we are, we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but 

strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not 

to yield. 

Tennyson. 

KING LEAE. 

O Heavens, 
If you do love old men, if your 

sweet sway 
Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, 
Make it your cause; send down, and 
take my part ! 

Shakspeare. 

Rumble thy belly-full! Spit, fire! 

spout, rain! 
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are 

my daughters : 
I tax not you, you elements, with 

uukindness, 
I never gave you kingdom, called you 

children ; 
You owe me -no subscription; why 

then, let fall 
Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand 

your slave, 
A poor infirm, weak, and despised 

old man ; — 
But yet I call you servile ministers,. 
That have with two pernicious 

daughters joined 
Your high-engendered battles 'gainst 

a head 
So old and white as this. O ! O ! 'tis 

foul ! 

Shakspeare. 

OUTLINE. 

Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, 

Love, and Hope, 
And melancholy Fear subdued by 

Faith ; 
Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
Of moral strength, aud intellectual 

power ; 



INTELLECTUAL. 



103 



Of joy in widest commonalty spread; 
Of tlic individual Mind that keeps 

her own 
Inviolate retirement, subject there 
To Conscience only, and the law 

supreme 
Of that Intelligence which governs 

all — 
I sing : — "fit audience let me find, 

though few!" 
So prayed, more gaining than he 

asked, the Bard 
In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if 

such 
Descend to earth or dwell in highest 

heaven ! 
For I must tread on shadowy ground, 

must sink 
Deep, and, aloft ascending, breathe 

in worlds 
To which the heaven of heavens is 

but a veil. 
All strength, all terror, single or in 

bands, 
That ever was put forth in personal 

form — 
Jehovah, with his thunder, and the 

choir 
Of shouting Angels, and the empy- 
real thrones, — 
I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, 

not 
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
Nor aught of blinder vacancy, 

scooped out 
By help of dreams, can breed such 

fear and awe 
As fall upon us often when we look 
Into our Minds, into the Mind of 

Man, — 
My haunt, and the main region of 

my song. 
Beauty — a living Presence of the 

earth. 
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
Wliich craft of delicate Spirits doth 

compose 
Fi'om earth's materials — waits upon 

my steps ; 
Pitches her tents before me as I move. 
An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and 

groves 
Elysian, Fortunate Fields, — like 

those of old 
Sought in the Atlantic main, — why 

should they be 
A history only of departed things, 



Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 

For the discerning intellect of Man, 

When wedded to this goodly uni- 
verse 

In love and holy passion, shall find 
these 

A simple produce of the common 
day. 

I, long before the blissful hour ar- 
rives, 

Would chant, in lonely peace, the 
spousal verse 

Of this great consummation : — and, 
by words 

Which speak of nothing more than 
what we are, 

Would I arouse the sensual from 
their sleep 

Of Death, and win the vacant and 
the vain 

To noble raptures; while my voice 
l^roclaims 

How exquisitely the individual Mind 

(And the progressive powers, per- 
haps no less, 

Of the whole species) to the exter- 
nal World 

Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, 
too — 

(Theme this but little heard of 
among men — ) 

The external World is fitted to the 
Mind ; 

And the creation (by no lower name 

Can it be called) which they with 
blended might 

Accomplish : — this is our high argu- 
ment. 

Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I 
oft 

Must turn elsewhere, to travel near 
the tribes 

And fellowships of men, and see ill 
sights 

Of madding passions mutually in- 
flamed ; 

Must hear Humanity in fields and 
groves 

Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 

Brooding above the fierce confede- 
rate storm 

Of sorrow, barricaded evermore 

Within the walls of cities, —may 
these sounds 

Have their authentic comment ; that 
even these 

Hearing, I be not downcast or for- 
lorn! 



104 



PAKNASSUS. 



Descend, prophetic spirit! that in- 

spir'st 
The human Soul of universal earth, 
Dreaming on things to come; and 

dost possess 
A metropolitan temple in the hearts 
Of mighty Poets : upon me bestow 
A gift of genuine insight ; that my 

Song 
With star-like virtue in its place 

may shine. 
Shedding benignant influence, and 

secure, 
Itself, from all malevolent effect 
Of those mutations that extend their 

sway 
Throughout the nether sphere ! And 

if with this 
I mix more lowly matter ; with the 

thing 
Contemplated, describe the Mind 

and Man 
Contemplating ; and who, and what 

he was, — 
The transitory Being that beheld 
This Vision ; when and where, and 

how he lived ; — 
Be not this labor useless. If such 

theme 
May sort with highest objects, then 

— dread Power ! 
Whose gracious favor is the primal 

source 
Of all illumination, — may my Life 
Express the image of a better time. 
More wise desires, and simpler man- 
ners; nurse 
My Heart in genuine freedom : — all 

pure thoughts 
Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing 

love 
Guide and support and cheer me to 

the end ! 

Wordsworth. 



COMUS, A MASK. 

THE FIRST SCENE DISCOVERS A 
WILD WOOD. 

The Attendant Spirit descends or 
enters. 

Before the starry threshold of 
Jove's court 

My mansion is, where those immor- 
tal shapes 



Of bright aerial spirits live insphered 

In regions mild of calm and serene 
air. 

Above the smoke and stir of this dim 
spot 

Which men call Earth, and with 
low-thoughted care 

Confined and pestered in this pinfold 
here, 

Strive to keep up a frail and feverish 
being, 

Unmindful of the crown that virtue 
gives, 

After this mortal change, to her true 
servants. 

Amongst the enthroned Gods on 
sainted seats. 

Yet some there be that by due steps 
aspire 

To lay their just hands on that gol- 
den key 

That opes the palace of eternity; 

To such my errand is ; and, but for 
such, 

I would not soil these pure ambro- 
sial weeds 

With the rank vapors of this sin- 
worn mould. 
But to my task. Neptune, besides 
the sway 

Of every salt flood, and each ebbing 
stream, 

Took in by lot 'twixt high and nether 
Jove 

Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles, 

That like to rich and various gems 
inlay 

The unadorned bosom of the deep ; 

Which he, to grace his tributaiy 
Gods, 

By course commits to several govern- 
ment. 

And gives them leave to wear their 
sapphire crowns. 

And wield their little tridents : but 
this Isle, 

The greatest and the best of all the 
main, 

He quarters to his blue-haired dei- 
ties ; 

And all this tract that fronts the 
falling sun 

A noble Peer of mickle trust and 
power 

Has in his charge, with tempered 
awe to guide 

An old and haughty nation proud in 
arms: 



INTELLECTUAL. 



105 



IWlicre his fair offspring, nursed in 

princely lore, 
Are coming to attend their father's 

state, 
And new-intrusted sceptre ; but their 

way 
Lies through the perplexed paths of 

this drear wood, 
The nodding horror of whose shady 

brows 
Threats the forlorn and wandering 

passenger ; 
And here their tender age might 

suffer peril. 
But that by quick command from 

sovereign Jove 
I was despatched for their defence 

and guard ; 
And listen why, for I will tell you 

now 
Wliat never yet was heard in tale or 

song, 
'From old or modern bard, in hall or 

bower. 
• Bacchus, that first from out the 

purple grape 
Crushed the sweet poison of misused 

wine, 
After the Tuscan mariners trans- 

fonned, 
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the 

winds listed. 
On Circe's island fell: who knows 

not CJirce, 
The daughter of the sun, whose 

channed cup 
Wlioever tasted, lost his upright 

shape, 
And downward fell into a grovelling 

swine ? 
Tliis Nymph that gazed upon his 

clustering locks 
With ivy berries wreathed, and his 

blithe youth, 
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a 

son 
Much like his father, but his mother 

more, 
Wliom therefore she brought up, and 

Comus named 
Wlio ripe, and frolic of his full grown 

age. 
Roving the Celtic and Iberian 

fields, 
A.t last betakes him to this ominous 

wood, 
And in thick shelter of black shades 

imbowered, 



Excels his mother at her mighty 
art. 

Offering to every weary traveller 

His orient liquor in a crystal glass. 

To quench the drouth of Phoebus; 
which as they taste, 

(For most do taste through fond in- 
temperate thirst) 

Soon as the potion works, their hu- 
man count' nance. 

The express resemblance of the Gods, 
is changed 

Into some brutish fonn of wolf, or 
bear. 

Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded 
goat. 

All other parts remaining as they 
were ; 

And they, so perfect is their mis- 
ery* 

Not once perceive their foul disfig- 
urement. 

But boast themselves more comely 
than before. 

And all their friends and native 
home forget, 

To roll with pleasure in a sensual 
sty. 

Therefore, when any favored of high 
Jove 

Chances to pass through this adven- 
turous glade. 

Swift as the sparkle of a glanchig 
star 

I shoot from heaven, to give him safe 
convoy, 

As now I do : But first I must put 
off 

These my sky robes spun out of Iris' 
woof. 

And take the weeds and likeness of 
a swain. 

That to the service of this house 
belongs, 

Wlio witli his soft pipe, and smootli- 
dittied song. 

Well knows to still the wild winds 
when they roar. 

And hush the waving woods, nor of 
less faith, 

And in this office of his mountain 
watch. 

Likeliest, and nearest to the pi-esent 
aid 

Of this occasion. But I hear the 
tread 

Of hateful steps ; I must be viewless 
now. 



106 



PARNASSUS. 



CoMUS enters with a charming-rod 
in one hand, his glass in the other; 
with him a rout of monsters, headed 
like sundry sorts of ivild beasts, but 
otherwise like men and women, their 
apparel glistering ; they come in 
making a riotous and unruly noise, 
with torches in their hands. 

Comus. — The star that bids the 
shepherd fold, 
Kow the top of heaven doth hold ; 
And the gilded car of day 
His glowing axle doth allay- 
In the steep Atlantic stream ; 
And the slope snn his upward beam 
Shoots against the dusky pole, 
Pacing toward the other goal 
Of his chamber in the east. 
Meanwhile welcome Joy, and Feast, 
Midnight Shout and Kevelry, 
Tipsy Dance and Jollity. 
Braid your locks with rosy twine, 
Dropping odors, dropping wine. 
Eigor now has gone to bed, 
And Advice with scrupulous head, 
Strict Age, and sour Severity, 
With their grave saws in slumber lie. 
We that are of purer fire 
Imitate the starry quire, 
Wlio in their nightly watchful 

spheres 
Lead in swift round the months and 

years. 
The sounds and seas, with all their 

finny drove, 
Now to the moon in wavering mor- 

rice move ; 
And on the tawny sands and shelves 
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper 

elves. 
By dimpled brook, and fountain brim. 
The wood-nymphs decked with dai- 
sies trim. 
Their merry wakes and pastimes 

keep ; 
What hath night to do with sleep ? 
Night hath better sweets to prove, 
Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. 
Come, let us our rites begin, 
'Tis only daylight that makes sin. 
Which these dun shades will ne'er 

report. 
Hail, Goddess of nocturnal sport, 
Dark-veil'd Cotytto! t'whom the 

secret flame 
Of midnight torches burns; myste- 
rious dame, 



That ne'er art called, but when the 
dragon woml) 

Of Stygian darkness spets her thick- 
est gloom. 

And makes one blot of all the air ; 

Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, 

Wherein thou rid'st with Hecate, and 
befriend 

Us thy vowed priests, till utmost end 

Of all thy dues be done, and none 
left out, 

Ere the babbling eastern scout. 

The nice Morn, on the Indian steep 

From her cabined loophole peep, 

And to the telltale sun descry 

Our concealed solemnity. 

Come, knit hands, and beat the 
ground 

In a light fantastic round. 



THE MEASUBE. 



II 



Break off, break off, I feel the diffei 

ent pace 
Of some chaste footing near about 

this ground. 
Kun to your shrouds, within these 

brakes and trees ; 
Our n amber may affright: Some 

virgin sure 
(For so I can distinguish by mine 

art) 
Benighted in these woods. Now to 

my charms. 
And to my wily trains; I shall ere 

long 
Be well stocked with as fair a herd a 

grazed 
About my mother Circe. Thus 

hurl 
My dazzling spells into the spung; 

air, 
Of power to cheat the eye with blea 

illusion, 
And give it false presentments, les 

the place 
And my quaint habits breed aston 

ishment. 
And put tlie damsel to suspicioui 

flight, 
Wliichmust not be, for that's againsl 

my course : 
I, under fair pretence of friendlj 

ends, 
And well-placed words of glozin: 

courtesy 

Baited with reasons not unplausible. 
Wind me into the easy-hearted man, 



INTELLECTUAL. 



107 



AjhI hug him into snares. Wlien 
once licr eye 

Hatli met the virtue of this magic 
duist, 

I shall appear some harmless vil- 
lager, 

I Whom thrift keeps up about his 
country gear. 

But here she comes; I fairly step 
aside, 

And hearken, if I may, her business 
here. 

THE LADY ENTERS. 

This way the noise was, if mine ear 

be true. 
My best guide now; methought it 

was the sound 
Of riot and ill-managed merriment, 
Sucli as the jocund flute, or game- 
some pipe 
Stirs up among the loose unlettered 

hinds, 
When for their teeming flocks, and 

granges full, 
In wanton dance, they praise the 

bounteous Pan, 
And thank the Gods amiss. I should 

be loath 
To meet the rudeness, and swilled 

insolence 
Of such late wassailers ; yet O ! 

where else 
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 
In the blind mazes of this tangled 

wood ? 
My brothers, when they saw me 

wearied out 
With this long way, resolving here 

to lodge 
Under tlic spreading favor of these 

pines, 
Stepped, as they said, to the next 

thicket side 
To bring me berries, or such cooling 

fruit 
As tlie kind, hospitable woods pro- 
vide. 
They left me then, when the gray- 
hooded Even, 
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed. 
Rose from the hindmost wheels of 

Pluebus' Avain. 
But where they are, and why they 

came not back. 
Is now the labor of my thoughts ; 

'tis likeliest 



They had engaged their wandering 

steps too far ; 
And envious darkness, ere they 

could return, 
Had stole them from me: else, O 

thievish Niglit, 
"Wliy shouldst thou, but for some 

felonious end. 
In thy dark lantern thus close up 

the stars. 
That Nature hung in heaven, and 

filled their lamps 
With everlasting oil, to give due 

light 
To the misled and lonely traveller? 
This is the place, as well as I may 

guess, 
Whence even now the tumult of loud 

mirth 
Was rife, and perfect in my listening 

ear. 
Yet nought but single darkness do I 

find. 
Wliat might this be? A thousand 

fantasies 
Begin to throng into my memory, 
Of calling shapes, and beckoning 

shadows dire. 
And airy tongues, that syllable men's 

names 
On sands, and shores, and desert 

wildernesses. 
These tlioughts may startle well, but 

not astound 
The virtuous mind, that ever walks 

attended 
By a strong-siding champion. Con- 
science. — 

welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white- 

handed Hope, 
Thou hovering Angel, girt with 

golden wings. 
And ^hou, unblemished form of 

Chastity ! 

1 see ye visibly, and now believe 
That he, tlie Supreme Good, t'whom 

all things ill 

Are but as slavish officers of ven- 
geance. 

Would send a glistering guardian, if 
need were, 

To keep my life and honor unas- 
sailed. 

Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud 

Turn forth her silver lining on the 
night? 

I did not err, there does a sable 
cloud 



108 



PARNASSUS. 



Turn forth her silver lining on the 

night, 
And casts a gleam over this tufted 

grove : 
I cannot halloo to my brothers, but 
Such noise as I can make to be 

heard farthest 
I'll venture, for my new enlivened 

spirits 
Prompt me; and they perhaps are 

not far off. 

SONG. 

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that 
liv'st unseen 
"Within thy airy shell, 
By slow Meander's margent green. 
And in the violet-embroidered vale, 
Wliere the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sad song mourn- 

eth well ; 
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
O, if thou have 
Hid them in some flowery cave. 
Tell me but where. 
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of 

the sphere ! 
So mayst thoii be translated to the 
skies, 
And give resounding grace to all 
heaven's harmonies. 

Enter Comus. 

Com. — Can any mortal mixture of 
earth's mould 

Breathe such divine enchanting rav- 
ishment ? 

Sure something holy lodges in that 
breast. 

And with these raptures moves the 
vocal air 

To testify his hidden residence : 

How sweetly did they float upon the 
wings 

Of silence, through the empty- 
vaulted night. 

At every fall smoothing the raven 
down 

Of darkness till it smiled! I have 
oft heard 

My mother Circe with the Sirens 
three, 

Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, 

Culling their potent herbs, and bale- 
ful drugs. 



Wlio, as tK3y sung, would take the 

prisoned soul, 
And lap it in Elysium ; Scylla wept. 
And chid her barking waves into 

attention. 
And fell Charybdis murmured soft 

applause : 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled 

the sense, 
And in sweet madness robbed it of 

itself; 
But such a sacred and liomefelt de- 
light. 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. I'll speak to 

her. 
And she shall be my queen. Hail, 

foreign wonder ! 
Wliom certain thece rough shades 

did never breed. 
Unless the goddess that in rural^ 

shrine 
Dwell' St here with Pan, or Silvan, bj 

blest song 
Forbidding eveiy bleak unkindly foj 
To touch the prosperous growth o] 

this tall wood. 
Ladij. — Nay, gentle Shepherd, il 

is lost tiiat praise 
That is addressed to unattending 

ears; 
Not any boast of skill, but extrenw 

shift 

How to regain my severed company. 
Compelled me to awake the cour- 
teous Echo 
To give me answer from her mossj 

couch. 
Com. — What chance, good Lady, 

hath bereft you thus ? 
Lady. — Dim darkness, and this 

leafy labyrinth. 
Com. — Could that divide you from 

near-ushering guides ? 
Lady. — They left me weary on a^ 

grassy turf. 
Com. — By falsehood, or discourt© 

sy, or why ? 
Lady. — To seek i' the valley some 

cool friendly spring. 
Com. — And left your fair side all 

iniguarded, Lady? 
Lady. — They were but twain, and 

purposed quick return. 
Com. — Perhaps forestalling night 

prevented them. 
Lady. — How easy my misfortune 

is to hit ! 



INTELLECTUAL. 



109 



Com. — Imports their loss beside 

the present need ? 
Lady. — No less than if I should 

my brothers lose. 
Com. SVere they of manly prime, 

or youthful bloom ? 
Lady. — As smooth as Hebe's their 

unrazored lips. 
Com. — Two such I saw, what time 
the labored ox 

In his loose traces from the furrow 
came, 

And the swinked hedger at his sup- 
per sat ; 

I saw them under a green mantling 
vine 

That crawls along the side of yon 
small hill. 

Plucking ripe clusters from the ten- 
der shoots ; 

Their port was more than human, 
as they stood : 

I took it for a faery vision 

Of some gay creatures of the ele- 
ment, 

That in the colors of the rainbow live, 

And play i' the plighted clouds. I 
was awestruck, 

And as I passed, I worshipped: if 
those you seek. 

It were a journey like the path to 
heaven 

To help you find them. 
Lady. — Gentle Villager, 

Wliat readiest way would bring me 
to that place ? 
Cum. — Due west it rises from this 

shrubby point. 
Lady. — To find that out, good 
shepherd, I suppose 

In such a scant allowance of star- 
light, 

Would overtask the best land-pilot's 
art, 

Without the sure guess of well- 
practised feet. 
Com. — I know each lane, and 
every alley green. 

Dingle or bushy dell, of this wild 
wood, 

And every bosky bourn from side to 
side. 

My daily walks and ancient neigh- 
borhood ; 

And if your stray attendants be yet 
lodged 

Or shroud within these limits, I 
shall know 



Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted 
lark 

From her thatched pallet rouse: if 
otherwise, 

I can conduct you. Lady, to a low 

But loyal cottage, where you may be 
safe 

Till further quest. 
Lady. — Shepherd, I take thy word. 

And trust thy honest offered courte- 
sy. 

Which oft is sooner found in lowly 
sheds 

With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry 
halls 

And courts of princes, where it first 
was named. 

And yet is most pretended : in a place 

Less warranted than this, or less 
secure, 

I cannot be, that I should fear to 
change it. 

Eye me, blest Providence, and square 
my trial 

To my proportioned strength. Shep- 
herd, lead on. 

Enter the Two Bkothers. 

1 Br. — UnmufHe, ye faint stars, 

and thou, fair moon. 
That wont' St to love the traveller's 

benison, 
Stoop thy pale visage through an 

amber cloud, 
And disinherit Chaos, that reigns 

here 
In double night of darkness and of 

shades ; 
Or if yovu" influence be quite dammed 

up 
With black usurpmg mists, some 

gentle taper, 
Though a rush candle, from the 

wicker-hole 
Of some clay habitation, visit us 
With thy long-levelled rule of 

streaming light ; 
And thou shalt be our star of 

Arcady, 
Or Tyrian Cynosure. 

2 Br. — Or if our eyes 

Be barred that happiness, might we 

but hear 
The folded flocks penned in their 

wattled cotes. 
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten 

stops, 



110 



PARNASSUS. 



Or whistle from the lodge, or village 

cock 
Count the night watches to his 

feathery dames, 
'Twould be some solace yet, some 

little cheering 
In this close dungeon of innumerous 

boughs. 
But O that hapless virgin, our lost 

sister ! 
Where may she wander now, whither 

betake her 
From the chill dew, among rude 

burrs and thistles ? 
Perhaps some cold bank is her bol- 
ster now, 
Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some 

broad elm 
Leans her unpillowed head, fraught 

with sad fears. 
What, if in wild amazement and 

affright. 
Or, while we speak, within the dire- 
ful grasp 
Of savage hunger, or of savage heat ? 
1 Br. — Peace, brother, be not 

over-exquisite 
To cast the fashion of uncertain 

evils ; 
For grant they be so, while they rest 

unknown. 
What need a man forestall his date 

of grief, 
And run to meet what he would 

most avoid ? 
Or if they be but false alarms of fear, 
How bitter is such self-delusion ! 
I do not think my sister so to seek. 
Or so unprincipled in virtue's book, 
And the sweet peace that goodness 

bosoms ever, 
As that the single want of light and ' 

noise 
(Not being in danger, as I trust she 

is not) 
Could stir the constant mood of her 

calm thoughts. 
And put them into misbecoming 

plight. 
Virtue could see to do what virtue 

would 
By her own radiant light, though 

sun and moon 
Were in the flat sea sunk. And 

Wisdom's self 
Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, 
Where, with her best nurse, Con- 
templation, 



She plumes her feathers, and lets 

grow her wings. 
That in the various bustle of resort 
Were all-to ruffled, and sometimes 

impaired. 
He that has light within his own 

clear breast, 
May sit i' the centre, and enjoy 

bright day : 
But he that hides a dark soul, and 

foul thoughts, 
Benighted walks under the mid-day 

sun; 
Himself is his own dungeon. 

2 Br. — 'Tis most true, 
That musing meditation most affects 
The pensive secrecy of desert cell. 
Far frona the cheerful haunt of men 

and herds. 
And sits as safe as in a senate house ; 
For who would rob a hermit of his 

weeds. 
His few books, or his beads, or maple 

dish. 
Or do his gray hairs any violence ? 
But beauty, like the fair Hesperian 

tree 
Laden with blooming gold, had need 

the guard 
Of dragon watch with unenchanted 

eye. 
To save her blossoms, and defend 

her fruit 
From the rash hand of bold incon- 
tinence. 
You may as well spread out the un- 
sunned heaps 
Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's 

den. 
And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 
Danger will wink on opportunity, 
And let a single helpless maiden pass 
Uninjured in this wild surrounding 

waste. 
Of night, or loneliness, it recks me 

not; 
I fear the dread events that dog them 

both. 
Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt 

the person 
Of our unowned sister. 

1 Br. — I do not, brother, 
Infer, as if I thought my sister's 

state 
Secure without all doubt or con 

troversy ; 
Yet whei-e an equal poise of hop 

and fear 



I 



INTELLECTUAL. 



Ill 



Does arbitrate the event, my nature 

is 
That I incline to hope rather than 

fear, 
And gladly banish squint suspicion. 
My sister is not so defenceless left, 
As you imagine; she has a hidden 

strength 
Which you remember not. 

2 Br. — VVliat hidden strength, 
Unless the strength of Heaven, if 

you mean that? 
1 Br. — I mean that too, but yet a 

hidden strength 
Wliich, if Heaven gave it, may be 

termed her own ; 
'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity. 
She that has that is clad in complete 

steel. 
And like a quivered Nymph with 

arrows keen 
May trace huge forests, and unhar- 

bored heaths. 
Infamous hills, and sandy perilous 

wilds. 
Where through the sacred rays of 

chastity. 
No savage fierce, bandite, or moun- 
taineer 
Will dare to soil her virgin purity : 
Yea there, where very desolation 

dwells, 
By grots, and caverns shagged with 

horrid shades. 
She may pass on with uublenched 

majesty, 
Be it not done in pride, or in pre- 
sumption. 
Some say no evil thing that walks 

by night. 
In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish 

feu, 
Blue meagre liag, or stubborn imlaid 

ghost. 
That breaks his magic chains at 

curfew time, 
No goblin, or swart faery of the 

mine, 
Hath liurtful power o'er true virgin- 

ity. 
Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
Antiquity from the old schools of 

Greece 
To testify the arms of chastity ? 
Hence Iiad the huntress Diau hev 

dread bow. 
Fair silver-shafted queen, forever 

cliaste, 



Wlierewith she tamed the brinded 

lioness 
And spotted moimtain pard, and set 

at nought 
The frivolous bolt of Cupid; gods 

and men 
Feared lier stern frown, and she was 

queen o' the woods. 
Wliat was tliat snaky-headed Gorgon 

shield, 
Tliat wise Minerva wore, uncon- 

quered virgin, 
Wherewith she freezed her foes to 

congealed stone, 
But rigid looks of chaste austerity, 
And noble grace that dashed brute 

violence 
With sudden adoration and blank 

awe? 
So dear to lieaven is saintly chastity, 
That when a soul is found sincerely 

so, 
A thousand liveried angels lackey 

her. 
Driving far off eacli thing of sin and 

guilt. 
And in clear dream, and solemn vis- 
ion, 
Tell her of things that no gross ear 

can hear, 
Till oft converse with lieavenly habi- 
tants 
Begin to cast a beam on the outward 

shape, 
Tlie unpolluted temple of the mind, 
And turns it by degrees to the soul's 

essence. 
Till all be made immortal : but wlien 

lust. 
By unchaste looks, loose gestures, 

and foul talk. 
But most by lewd and lavish act of 

sin. 
Lets in defilement to the inward 

parts, 
The soul grows clotted by contagion, 
Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she 

quite lose 
The divine property of her first be- 
ing. 
Such are those thick and gloomy 

shadows damp 
Oft seen in charnel vaults, and sep- 
ulchres. 
Lingering and sitting by a new-made 

grave. 
As loath to leave the body that it 

loved, 



112 



PARNASSUS. 



And linked itself by carnal sensual- 

ty 

To a degenerate and degraded state, 
2 Bi: — How charming is divine 

philosophy ! 
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools 

suppose, 
But musical as is Apollo's lute, 
And a perpetual feast of nectared 

sweets, 
Wliere no crude surfeit reigns, 

1 Br. — List, list, I hear 

Some far off halloo break the silent 
air. 

2 Br. — Methought so too : what 

should it be ? 

1 Br. — For certain 

Either some one like us night-found- 
ered here, 

Or else some neighbor woodman, 
or, at worst. 

Some roving robber calling to his 
fellows. 

2 Br. — Heaven keep my sister. 

Again, again, and near ! 
Best draw, and stand vipon our 

guard. 
IBr. — I'll halloo: 
If he be friendly, he comes well ; if 

not, 
Defence is a good cause, and Heaven 

be for us. 



Enter the Attendant Spirit, 
ited like a shepherd. 



hab- 



That halloo I should know: what 
are you ? speak ; 

Come not too near, you fall on iron 
stakes else. 
Spir. — What voice is that? my 

young Lord ? speak again. 
2 Br. — O brother, 'tis my father's 

shepherd, sure. 
1 Br. — Thyrsis ? Whose artful 
strains have oft delayed 

The huddling brook to hear his mad- 
rigal. 

And sweetened every muskrose of 
the dale. 

How cam'st thou here, good swain? 
hath any ram 

Slipt from the fold, or young kid 
lost his dam. 

Or straggling wether the pent flock 
forsook ? 

How couldst thou find this dark se- 
questered nook ? 



Spir. — O my loved master's heir, 

and his next joy, 
I came not here on such a trivial 

toy 
As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the 

stealth 
Of pilfering wolf; not all the fleecy 

wealth 
That doth enrich these downs is 

worth a thought 
To this my errand, and the care it 

brought. 
But, O my virgin Lady, where is 

she? 
How chance she is not in your com- 
pany ? 
1 Br. — To tell thee sadly. Shep- 
herd, without blame. 
Or our neglect, we lost her as we 

came. 
Spir. — Aye me unhappy ! then my 

fears are true. 
1 Br. — What fears, good Thyrsis ? 

Prithee briefly show. 
SjJir. — I'll tell ye; 'tis not vain or 

fabulous. 
Though so esteemed by shallow ig- 
norance. 
What the sage poets, taught by the 

heavenly Muse, 
Storied of old in high immortal verse. 
Of dire chimeras, and enchanted 

isles, 
And rifted rocks whose entrance 

leads to Hell ; 
For such there be, but unbelief is 

blind. 
Within the navel of this hideous 

wood. 
Immured in cypress shades a sorcer- 
er dwells. 
Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great 

Comus, 
Deep skilled in all his mother's 

witcheries ; 
And here to every thirsty wanderer 
By sly enticement gives his baneful 

cup. 
With many murmurs mixed, whose 

pleasing poison 
The visage quite transforms of him 

that drinks, 
And the inglorious likeness of a 

beast 
Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's 

mintage 
Charactered in the face : this I have 

learnt 



INTELLECTUAL. 



1^;^ 



Teiulius my flocks hard by i' the 
hilly crofls, 

That brow this bottom-glade, whence 
ni^ht by night, 

He and his monstrous rout are heard 
to howl. 

Like stabled wolves, or tigers at 
their prey. 

Doing abhorred rites to Hecate 

lu their obscured haunts of inmost 
bowers. 

Yet have they many baits, and guile- 
ful spells, 

T' inveigle and invite the unwary 
sense 

Of them that pass unweeting by the 
way. 

This evening late, by then the chew- 
ing flocks 

Had ta'en their supper on the sa- 
vory herb 

Of knot-grass dew-besprent, and 
were in fold, 

I sat me down to watch upon a bank 

Withivy canopied, and interwove 

With flaunting honey-suckle, and 
began, 

Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melan- 
choly. 

To meditate my rural minstrelsy, 

Till fancy had her fill, but ere a 
close. 

The wonted roar was up amidst the 
woods, 

And filled the air with barbarous 
dissonance ; 

At which I ceased, and listened them 
a while, 

Till an unusual stop of sudden silence 

Gave respite to the drowsy frighted 
steeds, 

That draw the litter of close-cur- 
tained sleep ; 

At last a soft and solemn-breathing 
sound 

Rose like a stream of rich distilled 
perfumes, 

And stole upon the air, that even 
Silence 

Was took ere she was ware, and 
wished she might 

Deny her nature, and be never more. 

Still to be so displaced. I was all 
ear, 

And took in strains that might 
create a soul 

Under the ribs of death : but O ere 
long 



Too well I did perceive it was the 

voice 
Of my most honored Lady, your 

dear sister. 
Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief 

and fear. 
And O poor hapless nightingale 

thought I, 
How sweet thou sing'st, how near 

the deadly snare ! 
Then down the lawns I ran with 

headlong haste. 
Through paths and turnings often 

trod by day. 
Till guided by mine ear I found the 

place, 
Where that damned wizard, hid in 

sly disguise, 
(For so by certain signs I knew) had 

met 
Already, ere my best speed could 

prevent. 
The aidless innocent Lady his 

wished prey ; 
"Who gently asked if he had seen 

such two, 
Supposing him some neighbor vil- 
lager. 
Longer I durst not stay, but soon I 

guessed 
Ye were the two she meant: with 

that I sprung 
Into swift flight, till I had found 

you here, 
But further know I not. 

2 Br. — O night and shades, 
How are ye joined with Hell in 

triple knot, 
Against the unarmed weakness of 

one virgin. 
Alone and helpless ! Is this the con- 
fidence 
You gave me, brother ? 

1 Br. — Yes, and keep it still, 
Lean on it safely ; not a period 
Shall be unsaid for me : against the 

threats 
Of malice or of sorcery, or that power 
Which erring men call Chance, this 

I hold firm. 
Virtue may be assailed, but never 

hurt, 
Surprised by unjust force, but not 

inthralled ; 
Yea even that which mischief meant 

most harm. 
Shall in the happy trial prove most 

glory: 



114 



PARNASSUS. 



But evil on itself slaall back recoil, 

And mix no more with goodness, 
when at last 

Gathered like scum, and settled to 
itself, 

It shall be in eternal restless change 

Self-fed, and self-consumed: if this 
fail, 

The pillared firmament is rottenness, 

And earth's base built on stubble. 
But come, let's on. 

Against the opposing will and arm 
of heaven 

May never this just sword be lifted 
up; 

But for that damned magician, let 
him be girt 

With all the grisly legions that troop 

Under the sooty flag of Acheron, 

Harpies and Hydras, or all the mon- 
strous forms 

'Twixt Africa and Ind, I'll find him 
out. 

And force him to return his pur- 
chase back, 

Or drag him by the curls to a foul 
death. 

Cursed as his life. 
Spir. — Alas ! good vent'rous 
Youth, 

I love thy courage yet, and bold em- 
prise ; 

But here thy sword can do thee 
little stead ; 

Far other arms and other weajDons 
must 

Be those that quell the might of 
hellish charms : 

He with his bare wand can unthread 
thy joints, 

And crumble all thy sinews. 
1 Br. — Why prithee, Shejiherd, 

How durst thou then thyself ap- 
proach so near. 

As to make this relation ? 

Spir. — Care and utmost shifts 

How to secure the Lady from sur- 
prisal. 

Brought to my mind a certain shep- 
herd lad. 

Of small regard to see to, yet well 
skilled 

In every virtuous plant and healing 
herb. 

That spreads her verdant leaf to the 
morning ray : 

He loved me well, and oft would beg 
me sing, 



Wliich when I did, he on the lender 

grass 
Would sit, and hearken e'en to ecs- 
tasy. 
And in requital ope his leathern 

scrip, 
And show me simples of a thousand 

names, 
Telling their strange and vigorous 

faculties : 
Amongst the rest a small unsightly 

root, 
But of divine effect, he culled me out: 
The leaf was darkish, and had 

prickles on it. 
But in another country, as he said. 
Bore a bright golden flower, but not 

in this soil : 
Unknown, and like esteemed, and 

the dull swain 
Treads on it daily with his clouted 

shoon : 
And yet more med'cinal is it than 

that moly 
That Hermes once to wise Ulysses 

gave; 
He called it hsemony, and gave it me. 
And bade me keep it as of sovereign 

use 
'Gainst all enchantments, mildew, 

blast, or damp. 
Or ghastly furies' apparition. 
I pursed it up, but little reck'ning 

made. 
Till now that this extremity com- 
pelled : 
But now I find it true ; for by this 

means 
I laiew the foul enchanter though 

disguised. 
Entered the very lime-twigs of his 

spells, 
And yet came off : if you have this 

about you, 
(As I will give you when we go) you 

may 
Boldly assault the necromancer's 

hall ; 
Where if he be, with dauntless har- 
dihood, 
And brandished blade rush on him, 

break his glass. 
And shed the luscious liquor on the 

ground. 
But seize his wand ; though he and 

his cursed crew 
Fierce sign of battle make, and men- 
ace high, 



INTELLECTUAL. 



115 



Or like the sons of Vulcan vomit 

smoke, 
Yet will they soon retire, if he but 
• shrink. 
1 Br. — Thyrsis, lead on apace, I'll 
follow thee, 
And some good Angel bear a shield 
before us. 

The Scene changes to a stately palace, 
set out xoith all manner of delicious- 
ness; soft music, tables spread tolth 
all dainties. Comus appears with 
his rabble, and the Lady set in an 
enchanted chair, to whom he offers 
his r/lass, which she puts by, and 
goes about to rise. 

Com. — Nay, Lady, sit; if I but 
wave this wand. 

Your nerves are all chained up in 
alabaster, 

And you a statue, or as Daphne was 

Koot-bound, that fled Apollo. 
Lady. — Fool, do not boast. 

Thou canst not touch the freedom 
of my mind 

With all thy charms, although this 
corporal rind 

Thou hast immanacled, while heaven 
sees good. 
Com. — AVliy are you vext, Lady? 
why do you frown ? 

Here dwell no frowns, nor anger; 
from these gates 

Sorrow flies far : See, here be all the 
pleasures 

That fancy can beget on youthful 
thoughts, 

Wlieu the fresh blood grows lively-, 
and returns 

Brisk as the April buds in primrose- 
season. 

And first behold this cordial julep 
here. 

That flames, and dances in his crys- 
tal bounds, 

With spirits of bahn, and fragrant 
syrups mixed. 

J^'ot that Nepenthes, which the wife 
of Thone 

In Egj-pt gave to Jove-born Helena, 

Is of such power to stir up joy as 
this, 

To life so friendly, or so cool to 
thirst. 

Why should you be so cruel to your- 
self, 



And to those dainty limbs which 

nature lent 
For gentle usage, and soft delicacy ? 
But you invert the covenants of her 

trust, 
And harshly deal, like an ill borrower, 
With that which you received on 

other terms ; 
Scorning the unexempt condition 
By which all mortal frailty must 

subsist, 
Refreshment after toil, ease after 

pain. 
That have been tired all day without 

repast, 
And timely rest liave wanted; but, 

fair Virgin, 
This will restore all soon. 

Lady. — 'Twill not, false traitor, 
'Twill not restore the truth and 

honesty 
That thou hast banished from thy 

tongue with lies. 
Was this the cottage, and the safe 

abode 
Thou told' St me of? What grim 

aspects are these, 
These ugly-headed monsters ? Mercy 

guard me ! 
Hence with thy brewed enchant- 
ments, foul deceiver; 
Hast thou betrayed my credulous 

innocence 
With vi sored falsehood and base 

forgery ? 
And wouklst thou seek again to trap 

me here 
With liquorish baits fit to insnare a 

brute ? 
Were it a draught for Juno when she 

banquets, 
I would not taste thy treasonous 

offer; none 
But such as are good men can give 

good things. 
And that which is not good is not 

delicious 
To a well-governed and wise appetite. 
Com. — "O foolishness of men ! that 

lend their ears 
To those budge doctors of the Stoic 

fur, 
And fetch their precepts from the 

Cynic tub. 
Praising the lean and sallow Absti- 
nence. 
Wlierefore did Nature pour her 

bounties forth 



116 



PARNASSUS. 



With sucli a full and unwithdrawing 
hand, 

Covering the earth with odors, 
fruits, and flocks. 

Thronging the seas with spawn 
innumerable, 

But all to please, and sate the curious 
taste ? 

And set to work millions of spinning 
worms, 

That in their green shops weave the 
smooth-haired silk 

To deck her sons ; and that no cor- 
ner might 

Be vacant of her plenty, in her own 
loins 

She hutclied the all worshipped ore, 
and precious gems, 

To store her children with : if all the 
world 

Should in a pet of temperance feed 
on pulse, 

Drink the clear stream, and nothing 
wear but frieze, 

The All-giver would be unthanked, 
would be unpraised, 

Not half his riches known, and yet 
despised ; 

And we should serve him as a grudg- 
ing master. 

As a penurious niggard of his 
wealth ; 

And live like Nature's bastards, not 
her sons. 

Who would be quite surcharged with 
her own weight, ^ 

And strangled with her waste fer- 
tility ; 

The eartli cumbered, and the winged 
air darked with plumes. 

The herds would over-multitude 
their lords, 

The sea o'erfraught would swell, and 
the unsought diamonds 

Would so emblaze the forehead of 
the deep. 

And so bestud with 'Stars, that they 
below 

Would grow inured to light, and come 
at last 

To gaze upon the sun with shame- 
less brows. 

List, Lady, be not coy, and be not 
cozened 

With that same vaunted name Vir- 
ginity. 

Beauty is Nature's coin, must not be 
hoarded, 



But must be current, and the good 

thereof 
Consists in mutual and partaken 

bliss, 
Unsavory in the enjoyment of 

itself; 
If you let slip time, like a neglected 

rose I 

It withers on the stalk with lan-^ 

guished head. 
Beauty is Nature's brag, and must be 

shown 
In courts, at feasts, and high solem^ 

nities. 
Where most may wonder at the 

workmanship ; 
It is for homely features to keej 

iiome. 
They had their name thence ; coarse 

complexions. 
And cheeks of sorry grain, will serve 

to ply 
The sampler, and to tease the house 

wife's wool. 
What need a vermeil-tinctured lip 

for that, 
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the 

morn? 
There was another meaning in thesei 

gifts. 
Think what, and be advised, you are 

but young yet. 
Lady. — I had not thought to have 

unlockt my lips 
In this unhallowed air, but that this 

juggler 
Would think to charm my judgment, 

as mine eyes, 
Obtruding false rules pranked in 

reason's garb. 
I hate when Vice can bolt her argu- 
ments. 
And Virtue has no tongue to check 

her pride. 
Impostor, do not charge most inno 

cent Nature, 
As if she would her children should 

be riotous 
With her abundance; she, good 

cateress. 
Means her provision only to the 

good, 
That live according to her sober 

laws, 

And holy dictate of spare temper- 
ance: 
If every just man, that now pineS' 

with want, 



INTELLECTUAL. 



117 



Had but a moderate and beseeming 

share 
Of that which lewdly-pampered 

luxury 
Now heaps upon some few with vast 

excess, 
Nature's full blessings would be well 

dispensed 
In unsuperlluous even proportion, 
And she no whit encumbered with 

her store ; 
And then the Giver would be better 

thanked, 
His pi'aise due paid ; for swinish 

gluttony 
Ne'er looks to heaven amidst his 

gorgeous feast, 
But with besotted base ingi'atitude 
Crams, and blasphemes his feedei*. 

Shall I go on? 
Or have I said enough? To him 

that dai-es 
Arm his profane tongue with con- 
temptuous words 
Against the sun-clad power of 

Chastity, 
Fain would I something say, yet to 

what end ? 
Thou hast not ear, nor soul to appre- 
hend 
The sublime notion, and high mys- 
tery. 
That must be uttered to unfold the 

sage 
And serious doctrine of Virginity, 
And thou art worthy that thou 

shouklst not know 
More happiness than this thy present 

lot. 
Enjoy your dear Avit, and gay rheto- 
ric, 
That hath so well been taught her 

dazzling fence. 
Thou art not fit to hear thyself 

convinced ; 
Yet should I try, the uncontrolled 

worth 
Of this pure cause would kindle my 

rapt spirits 
To such a flame of sacred vehemence, 
That dumb things would be moved 

to sympathize, 
And the brute earth would lend her 

nerves, and shake, 
Till all thy magic structures reared 

so high, 
Were shattered into heaps o'er thy 

false head. 



Com. — She fables not ; I feel that 

I do fear 
Her words set off by some superior 

power : 
And though not mortal, yet a cold 

shuddering dew 
Dips me all o'er, as when the wrath 

of Jove 
Speaks thunder, and the chains of 

Erebus, 
To some of Saturn's crew. I must 

dissemble. 
And try her yet more strongly. Come, 

no more. 
This is mere moral babble, and direct 
Against the canon laws of our foun- 
dation ; 
I must not suffer this, yet 'tis but 

the lees 
And settlings of a melancholy blood : 
But this will cure all straight ; one 

sip of this 
Will bathe the drooping spirits in 

delight. 
Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be 

wise, and taste. — 

The Brothers rush in with swords 
drawn, wrest his glass out of his 
hand, and break it against the 
ground: his rout make sign of re- 
sistance, but are all driven in. The 
Attendant Spirit comes in. 

Spir. — Wliat, have you let the 
false enchanter 'scape? 

O ye mistook, ye should have 
snatched his wand, 

And bound him fast: without his 
rod reversed. 

And backword mutters of dissever- 
ing power, 

We cannot free the Lady that sits 
here 

In stony fetters fixed, and motion- 
less : 

Yet stay, be not disturbed: now I 
bethink me. 

Some other means I have which may 
be used. 

Which once of Meliboeus old I 
learnt. 

The soothest shepherd that e'er 
piped on plains. 
There .s a gentle nymph not far 
from hence, 

That with moist curb sways the 
smooth Severn stream, 



118 



PARNASSUS. 



Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure ; 

Wliilom slie was the daughter of 
Locrine, 

That had the sceptre from his fath- 
er Brute. 

She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad 
pursuit 

Of her enraged stepdame Guendo- 
len, 

Commended her fair innocence to 
the flood. 

They stayed her flight with his cross- 
flowing course. 

The water-nymphs that in the bot- 
tom played, 

Held up their pearled wrists, and 
took her in, 

Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' 
hall, 

Who, piteous of her woes, reared 
her lank head, 

And gave her to his daughters to 
imbathe 

In nectared lavers strewed with as- 
phodel, 

And through the porch and inlet of 
each sense 

Dropped in ambrosial oils, till she 
revived. 

And underwent a quick immortal 
change. 

Made Goddess of the river : still she 
retains 

Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve 

Visits the herds along the twilight 
meadows, 

Helping all urchin blasts, and ill- 
luck signs 

That the shrewd meddling elf de- 
lights to make, 

Wliich she with precious vialled li- 
quors heals ; 

For which the shepherds at their 
festivals 

Carol her goodness loud in rustic 
lays. 

And throw sweet garland wreaths 
into her stream 

Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffo- 
dils, 

And, as the old swain said, she can 
unlock 

The clasping charm, and thaw the 
numbing spell, 

If she be right invoked in warbled 
song; 

For maidenhood she loves, and will 
be swift 



To aid a virgin, such as was herself, 
In hard-besetting need; this will I 

try, 
And add the power of some adjuring 

verse. 



Sabrina fair, 

Listen where thou art sitting 
Under the glassy, cool, translucent 
wave. 

In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-drop- 
ping hair ; 

Listen for dear honor's sake. 

Goddess of the silver lake. 
Listen and save. 
Listen and appear to us 
In name of great Oceanus, 
By the earth-shaking Neptune's 

mace, 
And Tethys' grave majestic pace, 
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look, 
And the Carpathian wizard's hook, 
By scaly Triton's winding shell. 
And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell. 
By Leucothea's lovely hands, 
And her son that rules the strands. 
By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet, 
And the songs of Sirens sweet. 
By dead Parthenoi^e's dear tomb. 
And fair Ligea's golden comb, 
Wherewith she sits on diamond 

rocks, 
Sleeking her soft alluring locks. 
By all the nymphs that nightly dance 
Upon thy streams with wily glance, 
Else, rise, and heave thy rosy head 
From thy coral-paven bed, 
And bridle in thy headlong wave, 
Till thou our summons answered 
have. 

Listen and save. 

Sabrina rises, attended by water- 
nymphs, and sings. 

By the rushy-fringed bank. 
Where grow the willow and the osier 
dank, 

My sliding chariot stays, 
Thick set with agate, and the azurn 

sheen 
Of turkis blue, and emerald green, 

That in the channel strays ; 
Whilst from off the waters fleet, 
Thus I set my printless feet 



I 



INTELLECTUAL. 



119 



O'er the cowslip's velvet head, 

That bends not as I tread ; 
Gentle Swain, at thy request 

I am here, 

Spir. — Goddess dear, 
We implore thy powerful hand 
To undo the charmed band 
Of true virgin here distressed, 
Thi'ough the force, and through the 

wile 
Of unblest enchanter vile. 

Sabr. — Shepherd, 'tis my office 
best 
To help ensnared chastity : 
Brightest Lady, look on me ; 
Thus I sprinkle on thy breast 
Drops that from my fountain pure 
I have kept of precious cure. 
Thrice upon thy finger's tip, 
Tlirice upon thy rubied lip ; 
Next this marble venomed seat, 
Smeared with giuns of glutinous 

heat, 
I touch with chaste palms moist and 

cold : 
Now the spell hath lost his hold ; 
And I must haste ere morning hour 
To wait in Amphitrite's bower. 

Sabkina descends, and the Lady 
rises out of her seat. 

Spir. — Virgin, daughter of Lo- 
crine, 
Sprung of old Anchises' line. 
May thy brimmed waves for this 
Their full tribute never miss 
From a thousand petty rills, 
That tumble down the snowy hills ; 
Summer drouth, or singed air 
Never scorch thy tresses fair. 
Nor wet October's torrent flood 
Thy molten crystal fill with mud ; 
May thy billows roll ashore 
The beryl, and the golden ore ; 
May tliy lofty head be crowned 
Wi th many a tower and terrace round, 
And here and there tliy banks upon 
With groves of myrrh and cinnamon. 

Come, Lady, while heaven lends 
us grace, 
Let us fly this cursed place. 
Lest the sorcerer us entice 
With some other new device. 
Not a waste, or needless sound. 
Till we come to holier ground ; 
I shall be your faitliful guide 
Through this gloomy covert wide, 



And not many furlongs thence 
Is your Father's residence, 
Wliere tliis night are met in state 
Many a friend to gratulate 
His wislied presence, and beside 
All the swains that there abide, 
With jigs, and rural dance resort; 
We shall catch tliem at their sport. 
And our sudden coming tliere 
Will double all their mirth and cheer; 
Come, let us haste, tlie stars grow 

high. 
But night sits monarch yet in the 

mid sky. 

The Scene changes, presenting Lud- 
low town and the President's cas- 
tle ; then come in country dancers, 
after them the Attendant Spibit, 
ioith the Two Brotheks, and the 
Lady. 

SONG. 

Spir. — Back, Shepherds, back, 
enough your play, 
Till next siuishine holiday; 
Here be without duck or nod 
Other trippings to be trod 
Of lighter toes, and such court guise 
As Mercury did first devise, 
With tlie mincing Dryades, 
On the lawns, and on the leas. 

This second Song presents them to 
their Father and Mother. 

Noble Lord, and Lady bright, 
I have brought ye new delight. 
Here beliold so goodly grown 
Three fair branches of your own ; 
Heaven hath timely tried their 

youth. 
Their faith, their patience, and 

their truth. 
And sent them here through hard 

assays 
With a crown of deathless praise, 
To triumph in victorious dance 
O'er sensual folly, and intemperance. 

The dances ended, the Spirit epi- 
logizes. 

Spir. — To the ocean now I fly, 
And those happy climes that lie 
Wliere day never shuts his eye. 
Up iu the broad fields of the sky : 



120 



PARNASSUS. 



There I suck the liquid air 

All amidst the gardens fair 

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 

That sing about the golden tree: 

Along the crisped shades and bowers 

Revels the spruce and jocund Spring, 

The Graces, and the rosy-bosomed 

Hours, 
Thither all their bounties bring ; 
There eternal Summer dwells, 
And west-winds, with musky wing, 
About the cedarn alleys fling 
Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 
Iris there with humid bow 
Waters the odorous banks, that blow 
Flowers of more mingled hvie 
Than her purfled scarf can show, 
And drenches with Elysian dew, 
(List mortals, if your ears be true) 
Beds of hyacinth and roses. 
Where young Adonis oft reposes. 
Waxing well of his deep wound 
In slumber soft, and on the ground 
Sadly sits the Assyrian queen ; 
But far above in spangled sheen 
Celestial Cupid, her famed son, ad- 
vanced. 
Holds his dear Psyche sweet en- 
tranced. 
After her wandering labors long, 
Till free consent the Gods among 
Make her his eternal bride, 
And from her fair unspotted side 
Two blissful twins are to be born. 
Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. 
But now my task is smoothly done, 
I can fly, or I can run 
Quickly to the green earth's end. 
Where the bowed welkin slow doth 

bend. 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 

Mortals, that would follow me. 
Love Virtue, she alone is free ; 
She can teach ye how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime : 
Or, if Virtue feeble were, 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 

Milton. 



MYTHOLOGY. 

O NEVEE rudely will I blame his faith 
In the might of stars and angels! 

'Tis not merely 
The human being's Pride that peo- 
ples space 



With life and mystical predomi- 
nance ; 
Since likewise for the stricken heart 

of Love 
This visible nature, and this common 

world, 
Is all too narrow : yea, a deeper im- 

IDort 
Lurks in the legend told my infant 

years 
Than lies ujion that truth we live to 

learn. 
For fable is Love's world, his home, 

his birthplace : 
Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays 

and talismans. 
And spirits ; and delightedly believes 
Divinities, being himself divine. 
The intelligible forms of ancient 

poets. 
The fair humanities of old religion, 
The power, the beauty, and the 

majesty. 
That had their haunts in dale, or 

piny mountain. 
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly 

spring. 
Or chasms and watery depths; all 

these have vanished ; 
They live no longer in the faith of 

reason. 
But still the heart doth need a lan- 
guage, still 
Doth the old instinct bring back the 

old names. 
And to yon starry world they now 

are gone. 
Spirits or gods, that used to share 

this earth 
With man as with their friend ; and 

to the lover 
Yonder they move, from yonder 

visible sky 
Shoot influence down; and even at 

this day 
'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is 

great. 
And Venus who brings every thing 

that's fair! 

CoLERiBGE : Wallenstein. 



KILMENY. 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; 
But it was na to meet Duneira's 

men. 
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 



INTELLECTUAL. 



121 



For Kilineny was pure as pure could 

be. 
It was only to hear the yorlln sing, 
And pu' the cress flower round the 

spring — 
The scarlet hypp, and the hind berry, 
And the nut that hangs frae the 

hazel tree ; 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could 

be. 
But lang may her minny look o'er 

the wa', 
And lang may she seek in the green- 
wood shaw ; 
Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 
And lang, lang greet ere Kilmeny 

come hame. 

Wlien many a day had come and fled, 
■\Vlien grief grew calm, and hope 

was dead, 
When mass for Kilmeny' s soul had 

been sung, 
When the bedesman had prayed, 

and the dead-bell rung, 
Late, late in a gloamin, when all 

was still, 
'WHien the fringe was red on the 

Avestlin hill. 
The wood was sere, the moon in the 

wane, 
The reek of the cot hung over the 

plain — 
Like a little wee cloud in the world 

its lane; 
■Wlien the ingle glowed with an eiry 

flame. 
Late, late in a gloamin, Kilmeny 

came hame ! 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have 

you been ? 
Long hae we sought baith holt and 

den — 
By linn, l)y ford, and greenwood tree ; 
Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 
Where got you that joup o' the lily 

sheen? 
That bonny snood of the birk sae 

green ? 
And these roses, the fairest that 

ever were seen ? 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you 

been?" 
Kilmeny looked up with a lovely 

grace. 
But nae smile was seen ou Kilmeny's 

face; 



As still was her look, and as still 

was her ee, 
As the stillness that lay on the 

emerant lea. 
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless 

sea. 
For Kilmeny had been she knew not 

where, 
And Kilmeny had seen what she 

could not declare ; 
Kilmeny had been where the cock 

never crew. 
Where the rain never fell, and the 

wind never blew ; 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky 

had rung, 
And the airs of heaven played round 

her tongue, 
When she spake of the lovely forms 

she had seen. 
And a land where sin had never 

been — 
A land of love and a land of light, 
Withouten sun, or moon, or night; 
And lovely beings round were rife. 
Who erst had travelled mortal life; 
They clasped her waist and her 

hands sae fair. 
They kissed her cheek and they 

kerned her hair ; 
And round came many a blooming 

fere, 
Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye' re wel- 
come here! 
Oh, bonny Kilmeny, free frae stain, 
If ever you seelc the world again — 
That world of sin, of sorrow, and 

fear — 
O, tell of the joys that are waiting 

here ! 
And tell of the signs you shall 

shortly see. 
Of the times that are now, and the 

times that shall be." 

But to sing of the sights Kilmeny 

saw. 
So far surpassing Nature's law. 
The singer's voice wad sink away. 
And the string of his harp wad 

cease to play. 
But she saw till the sorrows of man 

were by. 
And all was love and harmony ; 
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly 

away. 
Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's 

day. 



122 



PARKASSUS. 



Then Kilmeny begged again to see 

The friends she had left in her own 
countrye ; 

With distant music soft and deep, 

They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; 

And when she awakened, she lay 
her lane, 

All happed with flowers in the green- 
wood wene. 

When seven long years had come 
and fled ; 

When grief was calm, and hope was 
dead ; 

When scarce was remembered Kil- 
meny' s name, 

Late, late in a gloamin, Kilmeny 
came hame ! 

And oh, her beauty was fair to see, 

But still and steadfast was her ee ! 

And oh, the words that fell from 
her mouth 

Were words of wonder and words 
of truth! 

It was na her home, and she could 

na remain; 
She left this world of sorrow and 

pain. 
And returned to the land of thought 



again. 



Hogg. 



DKEAMS. 



Again returned the scenes of youth. 
Of confident undoubting truth ; 
Again his soul he interchanged 
With friends whose hearts were long 

estranged : 
They come, in dim procession led, 
The cold, the faithless, and the dead ; 
As warm each hand, each brow as 

As if they parted yesterday. 

Scott. 



ROMEO'S PRESAGE. 

Borneo. — If I may trust the flat- 
tering eye of sleep. 

My dreams presage some joyful news 
at hand : 

My bosom's lord sits lightly in his 
throne ; 

And all this day an unaccustomed 
spirit 



Lifts me above the ground with 

cheerful thoughts. 
I dreamt my lady came and found 

me dead ; 
(Strange dream that gives a deadj 

man leave to think, ) 
And breathed such life with kissesj 

in my lips, 
That I revived and was an emperor. 
Ah, me ! how sweet is love itself pos-| 

sessed 
When but love's shadows are so rich ' 

in joy. 
Shakspeake : Romeo and Juliet. 
Act V. Sc. 1. 



SHIPS AT SEA. 

I HAVE ships that went to sea 

More than fifty years ago : 
None have yet come home to me, 

But keep sailing to and fro. 
I have seen them, in my sleep. 
Plunging through the shoreless deep, 
With tattered sails and battered 

hulls, 
Wliile around them screamed the 
gulls. 
Flying low, flying low. 

I have wondered why they staid 

From me, sailing round the world ; 
And I've said, " I'm half afraid 
That their sails will ne'er be 
furled." 
Great the treasures that they hold, — 
Silks and plumes, and bars of gold ; 
"Willie the spices which they bear 
Fill with fragrance all the air. 
As they sail, as they sail. 

Every sailor in the port 

Knows that I have ships at sea. 
Of the waves and winds the sport ; 

And the sailors pity me. 
Oft they come and with me walk. 
Cheering me with hopeful talk. 
Till I put my fears aside. 
And contented watch the tide 
Rise and fall, rise and f alL 

I have waited on the piers, 
Gazing for them down the bay. 

Days and nights, for many years, 
Till I turned heart-sick away. 

But the pilots, when they land, 

Stop and take me by the hand, 



INTELLECTUAL. 



123 



Saying, "You will live to see 
Your proud vessels come from sea, 
One and all, one and all." 

So I never quite despair, 

Nor let hope or courage fail ; 
And some day, when skies are fair. 

Up the bay my ships will sail. 
I c;in buy then all I need, — 
Prints to look at, books to read. 
Horses, wines, and works of art. 
Every thing except a heart: 
That is lost, that is lost. 

Once when I was pure and young. 

Poorer, too, than I am now. 
Ere a cloud Avas o'er me flung. 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow. 
There was one whose heart was mine ; 
But she's something now divine, 
And though come my ships from sea. 
They can bring no heart to me. 
Evermore, evermore. 

E. B. Coffin. 



THE WHITE ISLAND. 

In tills world, the Isle of Dreames, 

While we sit by Sorrow's streames, 

Teares and terrors are our themes, 

Keciting : 

But when once from hence we flie. 
More and more approaching nigh 
Unto young eternitie, 

Uniting, 

In that Wliiter Island, where 
Things are evermore sincere ; 
Candor here and lustre there. 

Delighting : 

There no monstrous fancies shall 
Out of hell an Horror call. 
To create, or cause at all. 

Affrighting. 

There, in calm and cooling sleep, 
We our eyes shall never steep. 
But eternall watch shall keep, 

Attending 

Pleasures such as shall pursue 
Me immortalized and you; 
And fresh joyes, as never to 

Have ending. 
Hekkick. 



FANTASY. 

Brp:ak, Fantasy, from thy cave of 

cloud. 
And spread thy purple wings, 
Now all thy figures are allowed, 
And various shapes of things; 
Create of airy forms a stream. 
It must have blood, and nought of 

phlegm. 
And, though it be a waking dream. 
Yet let it like au odor rise 
To all the senses here, 
And fall like sleep upon their eyes. 
Or music iu their ear. 

Ben Jonson. 



PHCENIX AND TUKTLE DOVE. 

Let the bird of loudest lay. 

On the sole Arabian tree. 

Herald sad and trumpet be. 

To whose sound chaste wings obey. 

But thou shrieking harbinger. 
Foul pre-currer of the fiend. 
Augur of the fever's end. 
To Ihis troop come thou not near. 

From this session interdict 
Every fowl of tyrant wing. 
Save the eagle, feathered king ; 
Keep the obsequy so strict. 

Let the priest in surplice white 
That defunctive music can. 
Be the death-divining swan. 
Lest the requiem lack his right. 

And thou treble-dated crow. 
That thy sable gender mak'st 
With the brealih thou giv'st and 

tak'st, 
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. 

So they loved, as love in twain 
Had the essence but in one ; 
Two distincts, division none : 
Niuiiber there in love was slain. 

Hearts remote, yet not asunder ; 
Distance, and no space was seen 
'Twixtthe turtle and his queen: 
But in them it were a wonder. 

So between them love did shine, 
That the turtle saw his right 



124 



PARNASSUS. 



Flaming in the Phoenix' sight : 
Either was the other's mine. 

Property was thus appalled, 
That the self was not the same ; 
Single nature's double name 
Neither two nor one was called. 

Reason, in itself confounded, 
Saw division grow together; 
To themselves yet eitlier-neither. 
Simple was so well compounded : 

That it cried. How true a twain 
Seemeth this concordant one ! 
Love hath reason, reason none, 
If what parts can so remain. 

Whereupon it made this threne 
To the Phoenix and the dove, 
Co-siipremes and stars of love ; 
As chorus to their tragic scene. 



Beauty, truth, and rarity, 
Grace in all simplicity. 
Here enclosed in cinders lie. 

Death is now the Phoenix' nest ; 
And the turtle's loyal breast 
To eternity doth rest, 

Leaving no posterity : — 
' Twas not their infirmity. 
It was married chastity. 

Truth may seem, but cannot be; 
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she; 
Truth and beauty buried be. 

To this urn let those repair 
That are either true or fair ; 
For these dead birds sigh a prayer. 
Shakspeaee. 



COMPLIMENT TO QUEEN 
ELIZABETH. 

My gentle Puck, come hither, thou 

remember' st 
Since once I sat upon a promontory. 
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's 

back. 
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious 

breath, 



That the rude sea grew civil at her 

song; 
And certain stars shot madly from 

their spheres. 
To hear the sea-maid's music. 
That very time, I saw, but thou 

couldst not, 
Flying between the cold moon and 

the earth, 
Cupid all armed: a certain aim he 

took 
At a fair vestal, throned by the 

west; 
And loosed his love-shaft smartly 

from his bow. 
As it should pierce a hundred thou- 
sand hearts : 
But I might see young Cupid's fiery 

shaft 
Quenched in the chaste beams of the 

watery moon. 
And the imperial votaress passed on, 
In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
Yet marked I where the bolt of Cu- 
pid fell ; 
It fell upon a little western flower, — 
Before milk-white, now purjjle with 

love's wound, — 
And maidens call it Love-in-idle- 
ness. 
Fetch me that flower; the herb I 

showed thee once. 
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids 

laid 
Will make a man or woman madly 

dote 
Upon the next live creature that it 

sees. 
Fetch me this herb : and be thovi here 

again. 
Ere the Leviathan can swim a 

league. 
Puck. — I'll pvit a girdle round 

about the earth 
In forty minutes. 

Oberon. — Hast thou the flower 

there ? Welcome, wanderer. 
Puck. — Ay, there it is. 
Oberon. — I pray thee, give it me. 
I know a bank whereon the wild 

thyme blows. 
Where ox-lips and the nodding vio- 
let grows, 
Quite over-canopied with lush wood- 
bine, 
With sweet musk-roses, and with 
eglantine : 



INTELLECTUAL. 



125 



There sleeps Titania, some time of 
the iiiglit, 

Lulled in these flowers with dances 
and delight ; 

And there the snake throws her 
enamelled skin, 

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in : 

And with the juice of this I'll streak 
her eyes, 

And make her full of hateful fan- 
tasies. 

Shakspeare: Midsummer NiijhVs 
Dream. 



QUEEN MAB. 

O THEN, I see,Queeii Mab hath been 
with you. 

She is the fairies' midwife ; and she 
comes 

In shape no bigger than an agate- 
stone 

On the fore-finger of an alderman, 

Drawn with a team of little atomies 

Athwart men's noses as they lie 
asleep : 

Her wagon-spokes made of long spin- 
ners' legs; 

The cover, of the wings of grass- 
hoppers ; 

The traces, of the smallest spider's 
web; 

The collars, of the moonshine's 
watery beams ; 

Her whip, of cricket's bone; the 
lash, of film; 

Her wagoner, a small gray-coated 
gnat. 

Not half so big as a round little 
worm 

Pricked from the lazy finger of a 
maid: 

Her chariot is an empty hazel-hut, 

Made by the joiner squirrel, or old 
grub, 

Time out of mind the fairies' coach- 
makers. 

And iu this state she gallops night 
by night 

Through lovers' brains, and then 
they dream of love ; 

On courtiers' knees, that dream on 
court' sies straight; 

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight 
dream on fees ; 

O'er ladies' lips, who straight on 
kisses dream, 



Wliich oft the angry Mab with blis- 
ters plagues. 

Because their breaths with sweet- 
meats tainted are : 

Sometimes she gallops o'er a cour- 
tier's nose, 

And then dreams he of smelling out 
a suit; 

And sometimes comes she with a 
tithe-pig's tail. 

Tickling a parson's nose as he lies 
asleep, 

Then dreams he of another bene- 
fice: 

Sometimes she drive th o'er a sol- 
dier's neck. 

And then dreams he of cutting for- 
eign throats, 

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish 
blades, 

Of healths five fathom deep; and 
then anon 

Drums in his ear, at which he starts, 
and wakes. 

And, being thus frighted, swears a 
prayer or two. 

And sleeps again. This is that very 
Mab 

That plaits the manes of horses in 
the night, 

And bakes the elf-locks in foul slut- 
tish hairs, 

Which once untangled, much mis- 
fortune bodes. 
Shakspeare : Borneo and Juliet. 



SONG FKOM GYPSIES' 
MOKPHOSES. 



META- 



The owl is abroad, the bat, the 

toad, 
And so is the cat-a-mountain ; 
The ant and the mole sit both in a 

hole ; 
And frog peeps out o' the fountain ; 
The dogs they bay, and the timbrels 

play; 

The spindle now is a-turnmg ; 

The moon it is red, and the stars are 

fled; 
But all the sky is a-burning. 



The faery beam upon you, 
And the stars to glister on you, 
A moon of light 
In the noon of night, 



126 



PARNASSUS. 



Till the fire-drake liatli o'ergone you, 
The wheel of Fortune guide you, 
The Boy with the bow beside you 
Eun aye in the way, till the bird of 

day, 
And the luckier lot betide you. 

Ben Jonson. 



THE SONG OF FIONNUALA,* 

Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy 

water, 
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of 

repose. 
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's 

lonely daughter 
Tells to the night-star her tale of 

woes. 
When shall the swan, her death-note 

singing, 
Sleep, with wings in darkness furled ? 
When will heaven its sweet bell 

ringing. 
Call my spirit from this stormy 

world ? 

Sadly, O Moyle, to thy winter wave 

weeping. 
Fate bids me languish long ages 

away; 
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin 

lie sleeping. 
Still doth the pure light its dawning 

delay. 
When will that day-star, mildly 

springing. 
Warm our isle with peace and love ? 
When will heaven, its sweet bell 

ringing. 
Call my spirit to the fields above ? 
Thomas MookE. 



FAIRIES. 

Little was King Laurin, but from 

many a precious gem 
His wondrous strength and power, 

and his bold coui"age came ; 
Tall at times his stature grew, with 

spells of gramarye, « 

* Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, 
by some supernatural power, transformed 
into a swan, and condemned to wander 
over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, 
till the coming of Christianity, when the 
first sound of the mass bell was to be the 
signal of her release. 



Then to the noblest princes fellow 
might he be. 
Wabton : Little Garden of Boses. 



KUBLA KHAN. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, 
Through caverns measureless to 
man, 
Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile groimd 
With walls and towers were girdled 

round : 
And here were gardens bright with 

sinuous rills. 
Where blossomed many an incense- 
bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the 

hills, 
Infolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh! that deep chasm which 
slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn 
cover ! 

A savage place! as holy and en- 
chanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was 
haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon- 
lover ! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless 
turmoil seething, 

As if this earth in fast thick pants 
were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was 
forced : 

Amid whose swift half-intermitted 
burst 

Huge fragments vaulted like re- 
bounding hail. 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresh- 
er's flail: 

And 'mid these dancing rocks at 
once and ever 

It flung up momently the sacred 
river. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy 
motion 

Through wood and dale the sacred 
river ran, 

Then reached the caverns measure- 
less to man. 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless 
ocean : 



li 



INTELLECTUAL. 



127 



And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard 

from far 
Ancestral voices prophecying war ! 

The shadow of the dome of 

pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves ; 
Where was heard the mingled 

measure 
From the fountain and the 
caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves 
of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a'vision once I saw: 
It was an Abyssinian maid, 
And on her dvilcimer she played, 
Singing of Mount Abora. 
Could I revive within me 
Her symphony and song, 
To such a deep delight 'twould 
win me, 
[That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air. 
That sunny dome! those caves of 

ice! 
And all who heard should see them 

there, 
And all should cry. Beware! Be- 
ware ! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair. 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close j'our eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

S. T. Coleridge. 



j ST. CECILIA'S DAT. 

jFbom harmony, from heavenly har- 
mony, 
. This universal frame began : 
From harmony to harmony, 
(Through all the compass of the notes 

it ran, 
^The diapason closing full in man. 

•What passion cannot Music raise and 

quell ? 
' Wlien .Tubal struck the chorded 

shell, 
. His listening brethreu stood 

around, 
, And, woiKlering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 



Less than a God they thought there 
could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell. 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise 
and quell ? 

Dkyden. 



MUSIC. 

When whispering strains with 

creeping wind 
Distil soft passions through the 

heart ; 
And when at every touch we find 
Our pulses beat and bear a part ; 

Wlien threads can make 

A heartstring ache. 

Philosophy 

Can scarce deny 

Our souls are made of harmony. 

Wlien unto heavenly joys we faine 
Whate'er the soul affecteth most, 
Which only thus we can explain. 
By music of the heavenly host ; 

Whose lays we think 

Make stars to wink. 

Philosophy 

Can scarce deny 

Our souls consist of harmony. 

O lull me, lull me, charming air ! 
My senses rock with wonder sweet ; 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 
Soft like a spirit's are thy feet! 

Grief who needs fear 

That hath an ear ? 

Down let him lie. 

And slumbering die, 

And change his soul for hannony. 
William Strode. 



ORPHEUS WITH HIS LUTE. 

Orpheus with his lute made trees. 
And the mountain-tops that freeze, 
Bow themselves, when he. did 
sing: 
To his music, plants and flowers 
Ever sprung, as sun and showers, 
. There had been a lasting spring. 

Every thing that heard him play, 
Even the billows of the sea. 
Hung their heads, and then lay by. 



128 



PARNASSUS. 



In sweet music is such art ; 
Killing care and grief of heart, 
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die. 

Shakspeaee. 



MUSIC. 

NoRTHWAKD he turneth through a 

little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's 

golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and 

poor. 

Keats. 



THE PASSIONS. 

AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was 

young. 
While yet in early Greece she sung. 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, faint- 
ing, 
Possessed beyond the Muse's paint- 
ing: 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were 

fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round. 
They snatched her instruments of 

sound ; 
And as they oft had heard apart, 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive 
power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered laid. 
And back recoiled, he knew not 
why, 
E'en at the sound himself had 
made. 

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire. 
In lightnings owned his secret 
stings : 
In one rude clash he struck the 
lyre. 
And swept with hurried hand the 
strings. 



With woful measures, wan Despair 
Low, sullen sounds his grief be- 
guiled ; 
A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas 
wild. 

But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delighted measure ? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at dis- 
tance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain pro- 
long; 
And from the rocks, the woods, 
the vale, 
She called on Echo still, through all 
the song ; 
And, where her sweetest theme 

she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard 
at every close. 
And Hope enchanted smiled, and 

waved her golden hair. 
And longer had she sung; — but 
with a frown 
Kevenge impatient rose : 
He threw his blood-stained sword, 
in thunder down ; 
And with a withering look. 
The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full 
of woe! 
And, ever and anon, he beat 
The doubling drum, with furious 
heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary 
pause between, 
Dejected Pity, at his side. 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered 

mien. 
While each strained ball of sight 
seemed bursting from his head. 
Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought 
were fixed ; 
Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of differing themes the veering song 
was mixed ; 
And now it called on Love, now 
raving called on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sate retired ; 
And from her wild sequestered seat, 
In notes by distance made more 
sweet, * 



I 



INTELLECTUAL. 



129 



Poured througli the mellow horn 
her pensive soul : 
And dashing soft from rocks 

around, 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the 

mingled measure stole, 
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with 
fond delay, 
Kound a holy calm diffusing. 
Love of Peace, and lonely musing. 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But O ! how altered was its spright- 

ller tone. 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of 
healthiest hue. 
Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morn- 
ing dew. 
Blew an inspiring air that dale and 
thicket rung, 
The hunter's call, to Faun and 
Dryad known ; 
The oak-crowned Sisters, and their 
chaste-eyed Queen, 
Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen. 
Peeping from forth their alleys 
green : 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 
And Sport leaped up, and seized 
his beechen spear. 
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
He with viny crown advancing. 
First to the lively pipe his hand 
addrest ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awaken- 
ing viol, 
"NVhose^ sweet entrancing voice he 
loved the best ; 
They would have thought, who 
heard the strain. 
They saw in Tempe's vale, her 

native maids. 
Amidst the festal sounding shades. 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While, as his flying fingers kissed 

the strings. 
Love framed with Mirth a gay 

fantastic round : 
Loose were her tresses seen, her 

zone unbound ; 
And he, amidst his frolic and his 

play, 
As if he would the charming air 
repay, 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy 
wings. 

9 



O Music ! sphere-descended maid, 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! 
Why, goddess ! why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thine ancient lyre aside? 
As in that loved Athenian bower, 
You learned an all-commanding 

power. 
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared, 
Can well recall what then it heard ; 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time. 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
Thy wonders, in that godlike age. 
Fill thy recording Sister's page : — 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale. 
Thy humblest seed could more pre- 
vail. 
Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard 

age; 
E'en all at once together found, 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound, — 
O bid our vain endeavors cease ; 
Revive the just designs of Greece ; 
Return in all thy simple state ! 
Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 

Collins. 



A SUPPLICATION. 

Awake, awake, my Lyi-e ! 

And tell thy silent master's humble 

tale 
In sounds that may prevail ; 
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire 
Though so exalted she. 
And I so lowly be, 
Tell her, such different notes make 

all thy harmony. 

Hark ! how the strings awake : 

And, though the moving hand ap- 
proach not near. 

Themselves with awful fear 

A kind of numerous trembling make. 

Now all thy forces try ; 

Now all thy charms apply ; 

Revenge upon her ear the conquests 
of her eye. 

Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure 

Is useless here, since thou art only 

found 
To cure, but not to wound, 
And she to wound, but not id cure. 



130 



PARNASSUS. 



Too weak, too, wilt thou prove 
My passion to remove ; 
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourish- 
ment to love. 

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! 
For thou canst never tell my humble 
tale 
In sounds that will prevail, 
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; 
All thy vain mirth lay by, 
Bid thy strings silent lie, 
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let 
thy master die. 

Cowley. 



TO MUSIC. 

Ever a current of sadness deep 
Through the streams of thy triumph 
is heard to sweep. 

Hemans. 



TO THE HAEP. 

That instrument ne'er heard 
Struck by the skilful bard 

It strongly to awake. 
But it the Internals scared 

And made Olympus quake. 

As those prophetic strings 
Wliose sounds with fiery wings 

Drove fiends from their abode, 
Touched by the best of kings, 

That sung the holy ode. 

So his when women slew 
And it in Hebrus threw. 

Such sounds yet forth it sent,. 
The banks to weep that drew 

As down the stream it went. 

And diversely though strong, 
So anciently we sung 

To it, that now scarce known 
If first it did belong 

To Greece, or if our own. 

The Druides imbrued 
With gore on altars rude 

With sacrifices crowned 
In hollow woods bedewed. 

Adored the trembling sound. 

Drayton. 



^OLIAN HARP. 

The sea rolls vaguely, and the stars 

are dumb. 
The ship is sunk full many a year. 
Dream no more of loss or gain : 
A ship was never here. 
A dawn Avill never, never come. 
Is it all in vain ? 

Allingham, 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST ; OR, 
THE POWER OF MUSIC. 

'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia 

won 
By Philip's warlike son — 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne ; 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with 

myrtles bound 
(So should desert in arms be 

crowned ) ; 
The lovely Thais by his side 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride 
In flower of youth and beauty's, 

pride : — ' 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave 
None but the brave 
None but the bi-ave deserves the 

fair! 

Timotheus placed on high 

Amid the tuneful choir 

With flying fingers touched the lyre 

The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 

The song began from Jove, 

Wlio left his blissful seats above — 

Such is the power of mighty love ! 

A dragon's fiery form belled the god 

Sublime on radiant spheres he rode 

Wlien he to fair Olympia prest, 

And while he sought her snowy 

breast ; 
Then round her slender waist he 

curled, 
And stamped an image of himself, a 

sovereign of the world. 
— The listening crowd admire ih 

lofty sound ! 
A present deity ! they shout around.'_ 
A present deity! the vaulted roofs- 
rebound ! 



INTELLECTUAI.. 



131 



With ravislied ears 

The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god ; 

Affects to nod, 

And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet 

musician sung, — 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever 

young : 
The jolly god in triumph comes ! 
Sound the trumpets, heat the drums ! 
Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face : 
Now give the hauthoys bi'eath ; he 

comes, he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first oi'dain ; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasiu-e after pain. 

Soothed with the sound, the king 

grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again. 
And thrice he routed all his foes, 

and thrice he slew the slain ! 
The master saw the madness rise. 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And while he Heaven and Earth defied 
Changed his hand and checked his 

pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius great and good, 
By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 
Fallen from his high estate. 
And weltering in his blood; 
Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his former bounty fed; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless 

victor sate. 
Revolving in his altered soul 
The various turns of Chance below ; 
And now and then a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydiau measures 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 



War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 
Honor but an empty bvibble, 
Never ending, still beginning ; 
Fighting still, and still destroying ; 
If the world be worth thy winning. 
Think, O think, it worth enjoying : 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 
Take the good the gods provide thee! 
The many rend the skies with 

loud applause ; 
So Love was crowned, but Music 

won the cause. 
The prince unable to conceal his 

pain. 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and 

looked. 
Sighed and looked and sighed again : 
At length with love and wine at once 

opprest 
The vanquished victor sunk upon 

her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again : 
A louder yet, and yet a louder 

strain ! 
Break his bands of sleep asunder. 
And rouse him like a rattling peal 

of thunder. 
Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head : 
As awaked from the dead 
And amazed he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries. 
See the Furies arise ! 
See the snakes that they rear 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from 

their eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in 

battle were slain 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain : 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew ! 
Behold how they toss their torches 

on high. 
How they point to the Persian 

abodes 
And glittering temples of their hos- 
tile gods. 
The princes applaud with a furi^ 

ous joy : 
And the King seized a flambeau with 

zeal to destroy ; 



132 



PAENASSUS. 



Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey, 
And like another Helen, 
another Troy ! 



fired 



Thus long ago, 

Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 

While organs yet were mute, 

Timotheiis, to his breathing flute 

And sounding lyre 

Could swell the soul to rage, or 

kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred 

store 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts 

unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
Or both divide the crown ; 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
She drew an angel down ! 

Dryden. 



AET AND NATURE. 

Nature is made better by no 

mean, 
But Nature makes that mean: so 

over that Art 
Which you say adds to Nature is an 

Art 
That Nature makes. You see, sweet 

maid, we marry 
A gentler scion to the wildest stock. 
And make conceive a bark of baser 

kind 
By buds of nobler race. This is an 

Art 
Which does mend Nature, change it 

rather; but 
The Art itself is Nature. 

Shakspeare : Winter's Tale. 



D^DALUS. 

Wail for Dasdalus, all that is fairest ! 
All that is tuneful in air or wave ! 
Shapes whose beauty is truest and 

rarest, 
Paunt with your lamps and spells 

his grave ! 



Statues, bend your heads in sor- 
row, 

Ye that glance 'mid ruins old. 

That know not a past, nor expect a 
morrow 

On many a moonlight Grecian wold ! 



By sculptured cave and speaking 
river. 

Thee, Dasdalus, oft the Nymphs re- 
call ; 

The leaves with a sound of winter 
quiver, 

Murmur thy name, and withering fall. 



Yet are thy visions in soul the 
grandest j_ 

Of all that crowd on the tear-dimmed 
eye, 

ThoughjDsedaluSjthou no more coni- 
mandest 

New stars to that ever-widening sky 



Ever thy phantoms arise before us, 
Our loftier brothers, but one in 

blood ; 
By bed and table they lord it o'er 

us. 
With looks of beauty and words of 

good. 



Calmly they show us mankind vic- 
torious 

O'er all that's aimless, blind, and 
base ; 

Their presence has made our nature 
glorious. 

Unveiling our night's illumined face 



Wail for Dasdalus, Earth and Ocean ! 
Stars and Sun, lament for him ! 
Ages quake in strange commotion ! 
All ye realms of Life be dim I 



Wail for Daedalus, awful Voices, 

From earth's deep centre Mankind 
appall ! 

Seldom ye sound, and then Death 
rejoices, 

For he knows that then the mighti- 
est fall. 

John Sterling. 



INTELLECTUAL. 



133 



CATHEDRAL. 

Almeria. — It was thy fear, or else 

some transient wind 
Wliistlins; tlirough hollows of this 

vaulted aisle: 
No, all is hushed and still as death. 

'Tis dreadful! 
How reverend is the face of this tall 

pile, 
■^lioso ancient pillars rear their 

marble heads 
To bear aloft its arched and ponder- 
ous roof. 
By its own weight made steadfast 

and immovable, 
Looking tranquillity I It strikes an 

aAve 
And terror on my achhig sight; the 

tombs 
And monumental caves of death 

look cold. 
And shoot a chillness to my trem- 
bling lieart. 
Give me thy hand, and let me hear 

thy voice ; 
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let 

me hear 
Thy voice; — my own affrights me 

with its echoes. 

William Congkeve. 



SONNET. 

Oh how much more doth beauty 

beauteous seem 
By that sweet ornament which truth 

doth give I 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it 

deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in 

it live. 
The canker-blooms have full as deep 

a dye 
As the perfumed tincture of the roses. 
Hang on such thorns, and play as 

wantonly 
When summer's breath their masked 

buds discloses : 
But, for their virtue only is their 

show, 
They live unwooed, and unrespected 

fade; 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do 

not so ; 



Of their sweet deaths are sweetest 
odors made : 
And so of you, beauteous and 

lovely youth, 
When that shall fade, by verse 
distils your truth. 

Shakspeakk. 



SONNET. 

From you have I been absent in the 

spring. 
When proud-pied April, dressed in 

all his trim. 
Hath put a spirit of Youth in every 

thing. 
That heavy Saturn laughed and 

leaped with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the 

sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odor and in 

hue, 
Could make me any summer's story 

tell, 
Or from their proud lap pluck them 

where they grew : 
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white. 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the 

rose ; 
They were but sweet, but figures of 

delight. 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all 

those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you 

away. 
As with your shadow I with these 

did play. 

SUAKSPEARE. 



TO THE CRITIC. 
I. 

Vex not thou, the poet's mind 
With thy shallow wit : 

Vex not thou the poet's mind; 
For thou canst not fathom it. 



Dark-browed sophist, come not 
anear ; 



134 



PARNASSUS. 



Hollow smile and frozen sneer 
Come not here. 

The flowers would faint at your 
cruel cheer. 

In the heart of the garden the merry 

bird chants, 
It would fall to the ground if you 

came in. 

Tennyson. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, 
while as yet 'tis early morn : 

Leave me here, and when you want 
me, sound upon the bugle- 
horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as 
of old, the curlews call. 

Dreary gleams about the moorland 
flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance 
overlooks the sandy tracts. 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring 
into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied 
casement, ere I went to rest. 

Did I look on great Orion sloping 
slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, 
rising through the mellow 
shade, 

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tan- 
gled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wandered, 
nourishing a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and 
the long result of time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a 
fruitful land reposed ; 

When I clung to all the present for 
the promise that it closed ; 

When I dipt into the future far as 
human eye could see ; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and 
all the wonder that would 
be. — 



In the Spring a fuller crimson comes 
upon the robin's breast; 

In the Spring the wanton lapwing 
gets himself another crest ; 

In the SjDring a livelier iris changes 
on the burnished dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy 
lightly turns to thoughts of 
love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thin- 
ner than should be for one so 
young. 

And her eyes on all ray motions 
with a mute observance hung. 

And I said, "My cousin Amy, 
speak, and speak the truth to 
me. 

Trust me, cousin, all the current of 
my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead 
came a color and a light. 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing 
in the northern night. 



And she turned — her bosom shaken 
with a sudden storm of sighs — 

All the spirit deeply dawning in the 
dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, 
fearing they should do me 
wrong;" 

Saying, "Dost thou love me, cous- 
in?" weeping, "I have loved 
thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and 
turned it in his glowing 
hands ; 

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran 
itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and 
smote on all the chords with 
might ; 

Smote the chord of Self, that, trem- 
bling, passed in music out of 
sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland 
did we hear the copses ring, 

And her whisper thronged my pulses 
with the fulness of the Spring. 



|i 



INTELLECTUAL. 



135 



Many an evening by the waters did 
we watch the stately ships, 

And our spirits rushed together at 
the touching of tlie lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O 
my Amy, mine no more ! 

O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O 
the barren, barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser 
than all songs have sung, 

Puppet to a father's threat, and ser- 
vile to a shrewisli tongue I 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — hav- 
ing known me — to decline 

On a range of lower feelings and a 
narrower heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to 

his level day by day, 
What is fine within thee growing 

coarse to sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou 
art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will 
have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion 
shall have spent its novel 
force, 

Something better than his dog, a 
little dearer than, his horse. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy: 
think not they are glazed with 
wine. 

Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: 
take his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that 
his brain is overwrought: 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, 
touch him with thy lighter 
thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy 
things to understand — 

Better thou wert dead before me, 
though I slew thee with my 
hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden 
from the heart's disgrace, 

Rolled in one another's arms, and 
silent in a last embrace. 



Cursed be the social wants that sin 
against the strength of youth ! 

Cursed be the social lies that warp 
us from the living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err 
from honest Nature's rule! 

Cursed be the gold that gilds the 
straitened forehead of tlie 
fool! 

Well — 'tis well that I should blus- 
ter ! Hadst thou less unwor- 
thy proved — 

Would to God — for I had loved thee 
more than ever wife was 
loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish 

that which bears but bitter 

fruit? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, 

though my heart be at the 

root. 

Never, though my mortal summers 

to such length of years should 

come 
As the many-wintered crow that 

leads the clanging rookeiy 

home. 

Where is comfort ! in division of the 
records of the mind ? 

Can I part her from herself, and love 
her, as I knew her kind ? 

I remember one that perished: 
sweetly did she speak and 
move: 

Such a one do I remember, whom to 
look at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love 
her for the love she bore ? 

No — she never loved me truly : 
love is love forevenuore. 

Comfort? comfort scorned of devils! 

this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is 

remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn 
it, lest thy heart be put to 
proof. 

In the dead unhappy night, and 
when the rain is on the roof. 



136 



PAHNASSUS. 



Like a dog, he liunts in dreams, and 
thou art staring at the wall, 

Wliere the dying night-lamp flickers, 
and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, 
l^ointing to his drunken sleep, 

To thy widowed marriage-pilloM^s, 
to the tears that thou wilt 
weep. 

Thou shalt hear the "Never, nev- 
er," whispered by the phantom 
years. 

And a song from out the distance in 
the ringing of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking 
ancient kindness on thy pain. 

Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : 
get thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; 

for a tender voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to 

drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my 
latest rival brings thee rest. 

Baby fingers, waxen touches, press 
me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child, too, clothes the father 
with a dearness not his due. 

Half is thine, and half is his: it 
will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted 

to thy petty part, 
With a little hoard of maxims 

preaching down a daughter's 

heart. 

"They were dangerous guides the 
feelings — she liei'self was not 
exempt — 

Truly, she herself had sufEered" — 
Perish in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! 

wherefore should I care ? 
I myself must mix witli action, lest 

I witlier by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, 
lighting upon days like tliese ? 

Every door is barred with gold, and 
opens but to golden keys. 



Every gate is tlironged witli suitors, 
all the markets overflow. 

I have but an angry fancy : what is 
tliat which I should do ? 

I liad been content to perish, falling 
on the foeman's ground. 

When the ranks are rolled in vapor, 
and the winds are laid with 
sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps 
the hurt that Honor feels. 

And the nations do but murmur, 
snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will 

turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O^ 

thou wondrous Mother-Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that 
I felt before tbe strife. 

When I heard my days before me, 
and the tumult of my life. 

Yearning for the large excitement 
that the coming years would 
yield, 

Eager-liearted as a boy when first he 
leaves his father's field, 

And at night along the dusky high- 
way near and nearer drawn. 

Sees in lieaven the liglit of London 
flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be 

gone before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in, 

among the throngs of men ; 



Men, my brothers, men the work- 
ers, ever reaping something 
new: 

That which they have done but 
earnest of the tilings that they 
shall do : 

For I dipped into tlie future, far as ' 

human eye could see, 
Saw the Vision of tlie world, and 

all the wonder that would be ; 

Saw the lieavens fill with commerce, 
argosies of magic sails, 

Pilots of the purple twilight, drop- 
ping down witli costly bales ; 



INTELLECTUAL. 



137 



Heard the heavens fill with shout- 
ing, and there rained a ghastly 
dew 

From the nations' airy navies grap- 
pling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of 
the south-wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples 
plunging through the thunder- 
storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbbed no long- 
er, and the battle-flags were 
furled 

In the Parliament of man, the Fede- 
ration of the world. 



There the common sense of most 
shall hold a fretful realm in 
awe, 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, 
lapped in universal law. 

So I triumphed ere my passion 

sweeping through me left me 

dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and 

left me with the jaundiced 

eye; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all 
things here are out of joint : 

Science moves, but slowly, slowly, 
creeping on from point to 
point : 

Slowly comes a himgry people, as a 
lion, creeping uigher. 

Glares at one that nods and winks 
behind a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not through the ages 
one increasing purpose runs. 

And the thoughts of men are wid- 
ened with the process of the 
suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not 
harvest of his youthful joys, 

Though the deep heat of existence 
beat forever like a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lin- 
gers, and I linger on the shore. 

And the individual withers, and the 
world is more and more. 



Knowledge comes, but wisdom lin- 
gers, and he bears a laden 
breast, 

Full of sad experience, moving to- 
ward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, 
sounding on the bugle-horn, 

They to whom my foolish passion 
were a target for their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp 
on such a mouldered sti'ing? 

I am shamed through all my nature 
to have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weak- 
ness! woman's pleasure, wo- 
man's pain — 

Nature made them blinder motions 
bounded in a shallower brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all 
thy passions, matched with 
mine, 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and 
as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, 
nothing. Ah, for some retreat 

Deep in yonder shining Orient, 
where my life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell 
my father evil-starred ; — 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a 
selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there 

to wander far away. 
On from island unto island at the 

gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mel- 
low moons and happy skies. 

Breadths of tropic shade and palms 
in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats 
an European flag. 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous wood- 
land, swings the trailer from 
the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, 
hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark- 
purple spheres of sea. 



138 



PARNASSUS. 



There metliiuks would be enjoy- 
ment more than in this march 
of mind, 

In the steamship, in the railway, in 
the thoughts that shake man- 
kind. 

There the passions cramped no long- 
er shall have scope and breath- 
ing-space ; 

I will take some savage woman, she 
shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they 
shall dive, and they shall run, 

Catch the wild goat by the hair, and 
hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and 
leap the rainbows of the 
brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring 
over miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! 

but I know my words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower 

than the Christian child. 

I to herd with narrow foreheads, 
vacant of our glorious gains, 

Like a beast with lower pleasures, 
like a beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage, — what 
to me were sun or clime ? 

I the heir of all the ages, in the 
foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men 
should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at 
gaze like Joshua's moon in 
Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. 

Forward, forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin forever 

down the ringing grooves of 

change. 

Through the shadow of the globe we 
sweep into the younger day : 

Better fifty years of Europe than a 
cycle of Cathay. 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) 
help me as when life begun : 



Eift the hills, and roll the waters, 
flash the lightnings, weigh the 
sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my 

spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well 

through all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long 
farewell to Locksley Hall ! 

Now for me the woods may wither, 
now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, 
blackening over heath and 
holt. 

Cramming all the blast before it, in 
its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, witli 
rain or hail, or fire or snow ; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring 
seaward, and I go. 

Tennyson. 

HUKTS OF TIME. 

Out upon Time, who will leave no 
more 

Of the things to come than the 
things before ; 
Out upon Time, who forever will 
leave 

But enough of the past for the 
future to grieve, 

Kelics of things that have passed 
away. 

Fragments of stone reared by crea- 
tures of clay. 

For who the fool that doth not know 

How bloom and beauty come and go. 

And how disease, and pain, and 
sorrow, 

May chance to-day, may chance to- 
morrow, 

Unto the merriest of us all ? 

Bykon. 

POET'S MOOD. 

Hence, all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights 
Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see it. 
But only melancholy; 



INTELLECTUAL. 



139 



Oh, sweetest melancholy ! 
Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fastened to the ground, 
A tongue chained up, without a 

sound ! 
Fountain-head and pathless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves ! 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed, save bats and 

owls ! 
A midnight bell, a parting groan! 
These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
Then stretch our bones in a still 

gloomy valley : 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely 

melancholy. 
Beaumont aj^d Fletcher, 



MOODS. 

Out upon it : I have loved 
Three whole days together ; 

And am like to love three more, 
If it prove fair weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me : 
Love with me had made no stays, 

Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she, 

And that very face. 
There had been at least ere this 

A dozen dozen in her place. 

SiK John Suckling. 



THE SOUL'S EKRAND. 

Go, Soul, the body's guest, 

Upon a thankless errand ; 

Fear not to touch the best ; 

The truth shall be thy warrant : 
Go, since I needs must die, 
And give them all the lie. 

Go tell the Court it glows 
And shines like rotten wood; 
Go tell the Church it shows 
Wliat's good, but does no good: 



If Court and Church reply. 
Give Court and Church the lie. 

Tell Potentates they live 
Acting, but oh! their actions; 
Not loved, unless they give. 
Nor strong but by their factions ; 
If Potentates reply, 
Give Potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition, 
That rvile affairs of state, 
Their purpose is ambition ; 
Their practice only hate : 
And if they do reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell those that brave it most 
They beg for more by spending, 
Who in their greatest cost 
Seek nothing but commending: 
And if they make reply. 
Spare not to give the lie. 

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion ; 

Tell Love it is but lust ; 

Tell Time it is but motion ; 

Tell Flesh it is but dust : 
And wish them not reply. 
For thou must give the lie. 

Tell Age it daily wasteth ; 
Tell Honor how it alters ; 
Tell Beauty that it blasteth ; 
Tell Favor that she falters : 

And as they do reply, 

Give every one the lie. 

Tell Wit how much it wrangles 
In fickle points of niceness ; 
Tell Wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over wiseness : 
And if they do reply. 
Then give them both the lie. 

Tell Physic of her boldness ; 

Tell Skill it is pretension; 

Tell Charity of coldness ; 

Tell Law it is contention: 
And if they yield reply. 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell Fortune of her blindness ; 

Tell Nature of decay ; 

Tell Friendship of unkindness ; 

Tell Justice of delay : 
And if they do reply, 
Then give them still the lie. 



140 



PARNASSUS. 



Tell Arts tliey have no soundness, 

But vary by esteeming ; 

Tell Schools they lack profoundness, 

And stand too much on seeming : 
If Arts and Schools reply, 
Give Ai'ts and Schools the lie. 

Tell Faith it's fled the city; 
Tell how the country erreth; 
Tell, Manhood shakes off pity; 
Tell, Virtue least preferreth : 

And if they do reply, 

Spare not to give the lie. 

So when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing ; 

Although to give the lie 

Deserves no less than stabbing : 
Yet stab at thee who will, 
No stab the Soul can kill ! 

SiK Waltek Raleigh. 

EABIA. 

Rabia, sick upon her bed, 
By two saints was visited, — 



Holy Malik, Hassan wise — 
Men of mark in Moslem eyes. 

Hassan says, "Whose prayer is pure, 
Will God's chastisement endure." 

Malik, from a deeper sense 
Uttered his experience : 

"He who loves his Master's choice 
Will in chastisement rejoice." 

Rabia saw some selfish will 
In their maxims lingering still, 

And replied, " O men of grace ! 
He who sees his Master's face 

Will not, in his prayer, recall 
That he is chastised at all." 

Trans, by J. F. Clakke. 



IV. 



CONTEMPLATIVE. - MORAL. 
RELIGIOUS. 

MAN. —VIRTUE. — HONOR. — TIME. — CHANGE. 

FATE. — DEATH. — IMMORTALITY. 

HYMNS. — HOLYD AYS. 



" Eyes which the beam celestial view, 
Which evermore makes all things new." — Kebi^b. 



I 



COJSTTEMPL ATI VE. - MOEAL. - EELI- 
GIOUS. 



FEOM HYPERION. 

As Heaven and Earth are fairer, 
fairer far 

Than Chaos and blank Darkness, 
though once chiefs ; 

And as we" show beyond that Hea- 
ven and Earth 

In form and shape compact and 
beautiful, 

In will, in action free, companion- 
ship, 

And thousand other signs of purer 
life; 

So on our heels a fresh perfection 
treads, 

A power more strong in beauty, born 
of us, 

And fated to excel us, as we pass 

In glory that old Darkness. 

Keats. 



MAN. 

My God, I heard this day 
That none doth build a stately habi- 
tation 

But he that means to dwell there- 
in. 

^Vhat house more stately hath 
there been. 
Or can be, than is Man? to whose 
creation 

All things are in decay. 

For man is every thing. 
And more. He is a tree, yet bears 
no fruit ; 
A beast, yet is or should be more. 
Reason and speech Ave only bring. 
Parrots may thank us, if they are 
not mute. 
They go upon the score. 



Man is all symmetry, 
Full of proportions, one limb to an- 
other, 
And all to all the world besides ; 
Each part may call the farthest, 
brother ; 
For head with foot hath private am- 
ity, 
And both with moons and tides. 

Nothing hath got so far. 
But man hath caught and kept it 
as his prey. 
His eyes dismount the highest star : 
He is in little all the sphere : 
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because 
that they 
Find their acquaintance there. 

For us the winds do blow. 
The earth doth rest, heaven move, 
and fountains flow ; 
Nothing we see but means our good 
As our delight, or as our treasure ; 
The whole is either our cupboard of 
food. 
Or cabinet of pleasure. 

The stars have us to bed ; 
Night draws the curtain, which the 
sun withdraws. 
Music and light attend our head. 
All things unto our flesh are kind 
In their descent and being; —to our 
mind. 
In their ascent and cause. 

Each thing is full of Duty : 
Waters united are our navigation ; 
Distinguished, our habitation; 
Below our drink: above our meat: 
Both are our cleanliness. Hath one 
such beauty ? 
Then how are all things neat. 
143 



144 



PARNASSUS. 



More servants wait on Man 
Than he'll take notice of. In every 
path 
He treads down that which doth 

befriend him 
When sickness makes him pale 
and wan. 
O mighty Love ! Man is one world, 
and hath 
Another to attend tiim. 

Since then, my God, thou hast 
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it, 
That it may dwell with thee at 

last! 
Till then afford us so much wit, 
That as the world serves us, we may 
serve thee. 
And both thy servants be. 

Herbekt, 



HONOE. 

Say, what is Honor ? 'Tis the finest 
sense 

Of justice which the human mind 
can frame. 

Intent each lurking frailty to dis- 
claim, 

And guard the way of life from all 
offence 

Suffered or done. 

We know the arduous strife, the 

eternal laws 
To which the triumph of all good is 

given. 
High sacrifice, and labor without 

pause. 
Even to the death: else wherefore 

should the eye 
Of man converse with immortality ? 

WOKDSWOKTH. 



ENGLISH CHANNEL. 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I 
stood ; 

And saw, while sea was calm and 
air was clear, 

The coast of France — the coast of 
France how near ! 

Drawn almost into frightful neigh- 
borhood. 

I shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 



Was like a lake, or river bright and 

fair, 
A span of waters ; yet what power is 

there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for 

good ! 
Even so doth God protect us, if we be 
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, 

and waters roll 
Strength to the brave, and Power, 

and Deity ; 
Yet in themselves are nothing ! One, 

decree 
Spake laws to them, and said, thai 

by the soul 
Only, the Nations shall be great an^ 

free. 

WOEDSWOBTH 



THE PULLEY. 

When God at first made man. 
Having a glass of blessings standing 

" Let us," said he, " pour on him all 
we can ; 

Let the world's riches, which dis- 
persed lie. 
Contract into a span." 

So strength first made away ; 
Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, 

honor, pleasure. 
When almost all was out, God made 

a stay ; 
Perceiving that alone of all the treas- 
ure 
Eest in the bottom lay. 



I 



•' For if I should," said he, 
" Bestow this jewel also on my crea- 
ture, 
He would adore my gifts instead of 

me; 
And rest in Nature, not the God of 
Nature : 
So both should losers be. 

" Yet let him keep the rest ; 
But keep them, with repining rest- 
lessness. 
Let him be rich and weary ; that, at 

least. 
If goodness lead him not, yet weari- 
ness 
May toss him to my breast." 

Herbert. 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



145 



THE CHURCH PORCH. 

Thou whose sweet youth and early 

hopes enhance 
Thy rate and price, and mark thee 

for a treasure, 
Hearken luito a Verser, who may 

chance 
Rhyme thee to good, and make a bait 
of pleasure : 
A verse may find him who a ser- 
mon flies 
And turn delight into a sacri- 
fice. 

Wlien thou dost purpose aught 

(within thy power), 
Be sure to doe it, though it be but 

small ; 
Constancie knits the bones, and 

makes us stowre, 
When wanton pleasures beckon us 
to thrall. 
"VVho breaks liis own bond, for- 

feiteth liimself : 
What nature made a ship, he 
makes a shelf. 

By all means use sometimes to be 

alone. 
Salute thyself: see what thy soul 

doth wear. 
Dare to look in thy chest; for 'tis 

thine own : 
And tumble up and down what thou 
find'st there. 
Who cannot rest till he good 

fellows finde, 
He breaks up liouse, turns out 
of doorcs his minde. 

In clothes, cheap liandsomenesse 

dotli bear the bell, 
Wisdome's a trimmer thing than shop 

e'er gave. 
Say not then, this with that lace will 

do well ; 
But, this with my discretion will be 
brave. 
Much curiousnesse is a perpet- 
ual wooing. 
Nothing witli labor, folly long a 
doing. 

Entice all neatly to what they know 

best ; 
For so thou dost thyself and him a 

pleasure : 

10 



( But a proud ignorance will lose his 

rest. 
Rather than show his cards) steal 
from his treasure 
What to ask further. Doubts 

well raised do lock 
The speaker to thee, and pre- 
serve thy stock. 

When once thy foot enters the 

church, be bare. 
God is more there than thou; for 

thou art there 
Only by his permission. Then 

beware, 
And make thyself all reverence and 
fear. 
Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stock- 
ings ; quit thy state ; 
All equal are within the churches' 
gate. 

Resort to sermons, but to prayers 

most : 
Praying's the end of preaching. O 

be drest ; 
Stay not for th' other pin : why tliou 

hast lost 
A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell 
doth jest 
Away thy blessings, and ex- 
tremely flout thee, 
Thy clothes being fast, but thy 
soul loose about thee. 

Judge not the preaclier; for he is 

thy judge : 
If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st 

him not. 
God calleth preaching folly. Do not 

grudge 
To pick out treasures from an 
earthen pot. 
The worst speak something 

good : if all want sense, 
God takes a text, and preacheth 
patience. 

Herbert. 



HUMILITY. 

To me men are for what they 

are, 
They wear no masks with me. 
I never sickened at the jar 
Of ill-tuned flattery ; 
I never mourned affection lent 



146 



PARNASSUS. 



In folly or in blindness ; — 

The kindness that on me is sjjent 

Is pure, unasking kindness. 

R. M. MiLNES. 



THE HAPPY LIFE. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will; 
Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Wliose passions not his masters are ; 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Kot tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame, or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth 

raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by 

praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 

Who hath his life from rumors 

freed, 
Wliose conscience is his strong 

retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers 

feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great ; 

Wlio Grod doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend ; 

This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of 

lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir H. Wotton. 



WISDOM. 

Would Wisdom for herself be wooed, 

And wake the foolish from his 
dream, 
She must be glad as well as good. 

And must not only be, but seem : 
Beauty and joy are hers by right ; 

And knowing this, I wonder less 
That she's so scorned, when falsely 
dight 

In misery and ugliness. 



Wliat's that which Heaven to man 
endears. 
And that which eyes no sooner see 
Than the heart says, with floods of 
tears, 
" Ah, that's the thing which I 
would be!" 

Not childhood, full of frown and 
fret ; 
Not youth, impatient to disown 
Those visions high, which to forget 
Were worse than never to have 
known ; 
Not great men, even when they're 
good : 
The good man whom the Lord 
makes great. 
By some disgrace of chance or blood 

He fails not to humiliate : 
Not these: but souls, found here 
and there, 
Oases in our waste of sin, 
Where every thing is well and fair, 

And God remits his discipline ; 
Wliose sweet subdual of the world 
The Avorldling scarce can recog- 
nize. 
And ridicule against it hurled, 
Di'ops with a broken sting, and 
dies ; 
Wlio nobly, if they cannot know 
Wliether a 'scutcheon's dubious 
field 
Carries a falcon or a crow. 

Fancy a falcon on the shield ; 
Yet ever careful not to hurt 

God's honor, who creates success. 
Their praise of even the best desert 

Is but to have presumed no less ; ' 
And should their own life jilaudits 
bring. 
They're simply vexed at heart 
that such 
An easy, yea, delightful thing 
Should move the minds of men so 
much. 
They live by law, not like the fool, 

But like the bard, who freely sings 
In strictest bonds of rhjane and nde, 
And finds in them not bonds, but 
wings. 
They shine like Moses in the face, 
And teach our hearts, without the 
rod. 
That God's grace is the only grace. 
And all grace is the grace of 
God. 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



147 



Their home is home; their chosen 
lot 
A private place and private name, 
But, if the world's want calls, they'll 
not 
Refuse the indignities of fame. 

Coventry Patmoke. 



VIRTUE. 

Sweet Day! so cool, so calm, so 

bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 
The dew shall weep thy fall to- 
night — 

For thou must die. 

Sweet Rose ! whose hue, angry and 

brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 
Thy root is ever in its grave ; — 

And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring ! full of sweet days and 

roses ; 
A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
My music shows ye have your 

closes ; — 

And all must die. 



¥ 



Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn 
to coal. 

Then chiefly lives. 
Heebekt. 



HOlSrEST POVERTY. 

Is there, for honest poverty 

Wlia hangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by. 
We dare be poor for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that : 

Our toils obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea 
stamp, 
The man's the gowd for a' 
that. 

^V^uat though on hamely fare we 
dine, 
Wear hodden gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves 
their wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. 



For a' that, and a' that, 
Their tinsel show and a' that; 

The honest man though e'er sae 
poor. 
Is king o' men for a' that. 

You see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 
Wha struts, and stares, and a' 
that. 
Though hundreds worship at his 
word. 
He's but a coof for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that ; 
The man of independent mind, 
He looks and laughs at a' 
that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his 
might, 
Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' 
worth, 
Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may. 

As come it will for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the 
earth, 
May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet for a' that. 
When man to man, the warld 
o'er. 
Shall brothers be for a' that. 

BUENS. 



THE QUIP. 

The merry world did on a day 
With his train-bands and mates 

agree 
To meet together, where I lay. 
And all in sport to jeer at me. 

First, Beauty crept into a rose ; 
Wliich when I plucked not — " Sir," 

said she, 
" Tell me, I pray, whose hands are 

those?" 
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for 

me. 



148 



PARNASSUS. 



Then Money came; and, chinking 

still — 
"What tune is this, poor man?" 

said he ; 
" I heard in music you had skill." 
But tliou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 

Then came brave Glory puffing by. 
In silks, that whistled — " Who but 

he?" 
He scarce allowed me half an eye. 
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. 

Then came quick Wit and Conversa- 
tion ; 
And he would needs a comfort be, 
And, to be short, make an oration. 
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. 

Yet, when the hour of thy design 
To answer these fine things shall 

come. 
Speak not at large ; say I am thine ; 
And then they have their answer 

home, 

Herbekt. 



ETON COLLEGE. 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers. 

That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye, that fi-om the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse 
below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey. 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose 

flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver-winding way : 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood 
strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow, 

As waving fresh their gladsome 
wing. 
My weary soul they seem to soothe. 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 



Say, father Thames, for thou hast 
seen 

Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 
Wlio foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 

The captive linnet Avhich inthrall ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
, Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some on earnest business 
bent, 
Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring con- 
straint 
To sweeten liberty: 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign. 
And unknown regions dare de- 
scry: 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They hear a voice in every wind, 
And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when |)ossest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed. 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs bu.xom health of rosy hue, 
Wild wit, invention ever new, 

And lively cheer, of vigor born; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly the approach of morn. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom. 

The little victims play ; 
No sense have tliey of ills to come. 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see, how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate. 
And black Misfortune's baleful 
train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush 

stand. 
To seize their prey, the murth'rous 
band ! 
Ah, tell them, they are men ! 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 
The vultures of the mind. 

Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
And Shame that skulks behind ; 

Or pining Love shall waste their 
youth. 

Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth. 



CONTEMPLATIV' E. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



149 



That inly gnaws the secret heart; 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 



Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high. 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall 

try, 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 
That mocks the tear it forced to 
flow; 
And keen Remorse with blood 

defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 
Amid severest woe. 



Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the 

veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy 
hand. 

And slow-consuming Age. 



To each his sufferings : all are men. 

Condemned alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain. 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah! why should they know 

their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 
And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their para- 

"dise. 
No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 
'Tis folly to be wise. 

Gray. 



LIFE. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting ; 
And our hearts, though stout ancj 

brave, 
Still like rauflled drums are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 



Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sviblime. 
And departing leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time. 



Footprints that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
Seeing shall take heart again. 

Longfellow. 



ODE TO DUTY. 

Stern daughter of the voice of 

God! 
O Duty ! if that name thou love. 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost set 

free; 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail 

humanity ! 



There are who ask not if thine 

eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and 

truth, 
Wliere no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth: 
Glad hearts ! without reproach or 

blot; 
Wlio do thy work, and know it not : 
May joy be theirs while life shall 

last! 
And thou, if they should totter, 

teach them to stand fast ! 



Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant 

grace ; 
ISTor know we any thing so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face ; 
Flowers laugh before thee on their 

beds; 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from 

wrong. 
And the most ancient heavens, 

through thee, are fresh and 

strong. 



150 



PARNASSUS. 



To humbler functions, awful power ! 
I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
Oh ! let my wealvuess have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And, in the light of truth, thy bond- 
man let me live ! 

WOKDSWOKTH. 

CONFESSION. 

No screw, no piercer can 
Into a piece of timber worke and 
winde. 
As God's afflictions into man, 
Wlien he a tortxxre hath designed. 
They are too subtle for the subtlest 

hearts ; 
And fall, like rheumes, upon the 
tenderest parts. 

We are the earth ; and they. 
Like moles within us, heave, and 
cast about : 
And till they foot and clutch 

their prey, 
They never cool, much less give 
out. 
No smith can make such locks, but 

they have keys ; 
Closets are halls to them; and 
hearts, high-ways. 

Only an open breast 
Doth shut them out, so that they 
cannot enter ; 
Or, if they enter, cannot rest, 
But quickly seek some new 
adventure. 
Smooth open hearts no fastening 

have ; but fiction 
Doth give a hold and handle to 
affliction. 

Herbert. 

THE SHIELD. 

The old man said, " Take thou this 
shield, my son, 

Long tried in battle, and long tried 
by age. 

Guarded by this thy fathers did en- 
gage, 

Trusting to this the victory they 
have won." 



Forth from the tower Hope and 

Desire had built, 
In youth's bright morn I gazed upon 

the plain, — 
There struggled countless hosts, 

while many a stain 
Marked where the blood of brave 

men had been spilt. 

With spirit strong I bu.ckled to the 
fight. 

What sudden chill rushes through 
every vein ? 

Those fatal arms oppress me — all in 
vain 

My fainting limbs seek their accus- 
tomed might. 

Forged were those arms for men of 

other mould ; 
Our hands they fetter, cramp our 

spirits free : 
I throw them on the ground, and 

suddenly 
Comes back my strength — returns 

my spirit bold. 

I stand alone, unarmed, yet not alone ; 
Who heeds no law but what within 

he finds. 
Trusts his own vision, not to other 

minds. 
He fights with thee — Father, aid 

thou thy son. 

S. G. W. 

THE CONSOLERS. 

Consolers of the solitary hours 
Wlien I, a pilgrim, on a lonely shore 
Sought help, and found none, save 

in those high powers 
That then I prayed might never leave 

me more ! 

There was the blue, eternal sky 

above, 
There was the ocean silent at my feet. 
There was the universe — but nought 

to love ; 
The universe did its old tale repeat. 

Then came ye to me, with your heal- 
ing wings. 

And said, " Thus bare and branch- 
less must thou be, 

Ere thou couldst feel the wind from 
heaven that springs." 



I 



CONTEMrLATI VE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



151 



And now again fresh leaves do bud 

for me, — 
Yet let me feel that still the spirit 

sings 
Its quiet song, coming from heaven 

free. 

S. G. W. 



THE SEVEN AGES. 

All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely 

players : 
They have their exits and their en- 
trances ; 
And one man in his time plays many 

parts, 
His acts being seven ages. At first 

the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nvirse's 

arms : 
And then the whining schoolboy, 

with his satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping 

like snail 
Unwillingly to school : and then the 

lover. 
Sighing like furnace, with a woful 

ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow : then 

a soldier. 
Full of strange oaths, and beai'ded 

like the pard, 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick 

in quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mouth: and 

then the justice 
In fair round belly, with good capon 

lined, 
With eyes severe, and beard of for- 
mal cut. 
Full of wise saws and modern in- 
stances. 
And so he plays his part: the sixth 

age shifts 
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon. 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch 

on side. 
His youthful hose well saved, a 

world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big 

manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish 

treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound-" Last 

scene of all 



That ends this strange eventful 
history. 

Is second childishness, and mere ob- 
livion ; 

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, 
sans every thing. 
Shakspeake : As you like it. 



SUN-DIAL. 

The shadow on the dial's face, 
That steals from day to day, 
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace. 
Moments and months, and years 

away ; 
This shadow, which, in every clime, 
Since light and motion first began, 
Hath held its course sublime ; 
What is it ? mortal man ! 
It is the scythe of Time. 
Not only o'er the dial's face. 
This silent phantom, day by day. 
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace, 
Steals moments, months, and years 

away; 
From hoary rock and aged tree. 
From proud Palmyra's mouldering 

walls, 
From Teneriffe, towering o'er the 

sea. 
From every blade of grass it falls ; 
And still where'er a shadow sweeps. 
The scythe of time destroys, 
And man at every footstep weeps 
O'er evanescent joys. 

MONTGOMEKY. 



LIFE. 

I MADE a posie while the day ran 

by: 
Here will I smell my remnant out, 

and tie 
My life within this band. 
But Time did beckon to the flowers, 

and they 
By noon most cunningly did steal 

away, 
And withered in my hand. 

My hand was next to them, and then 

my heart ; 
I took, without more thinking, in 

good part 
Time's gentle admonition; 



152 



PARNASSUS. 



Wlio did so sweetly Death's sad taste 

convey, 
Making my mind to smell my fatal 

day, 
Yet sugaring tlie suspicion. 

Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your 

time ye spent. 
Fit, while you lived, for smell and 
ornament. 
And after death for cures. 
I follow straight without complaints 

or grief ; 
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 
It be as short as yours. 

Hebbert. 



KEVOLUTIONS. 

Like as the waves make towards the 

pebbled shore, 
So do our minutes hasten to their 

end; 
Each changing place with that which 

goes before. 
In sequent toil all forwards do con- 
tend. 
Nativity once in the main of light 
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being 

crowned. 
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory 

fight. 
And Time that gave, doth now his 

gift confound. 
Time doth transfix the flourish set 

on youth. 
And delves the parallels in beauty's 

brow 
Feeds on the rarities of Nature's 

truth. 
And nothing stands but for his 

scythe to mow. 
And yet, to times in hope, my 

verse shall stand 
Praising thy worth, despite his 

cruel hand. 

Shakspeaee. 



GOOD OMENS. 

Not mine own fears, nor the pro- 
phetic soul 

Of the wide world dreaming on 
things to come. 



Can yet the lease of my true love 

control. 
Supposed as forfeit to a conflned 

doom. 
The mortal moon hath her eclipse 

endured. 
And the sad augurs mock their own 

jjresage ; 
Incertainties now crown themselves 

assured, 
And peace proclaims olives of end- 
less age. 
Now with the drops of this most 

balmy time 
My love looks fresh, and Death to me 

subscribes. 
Since spite of him, I'll live in this 

poor rhyme. 
While he insults o'er dull and 

speechless tribes. 
And thou in this shalt find thy 

monument. 
When tyrants' crests and tomba 

of brass are spent. 

Shakspeahe. 



THE SKEPTIC. 

I CALLED on dreams and visions to 

disclose 
That which is veiled from waking 

thought; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer. Then my 

soul 
Turned inward, to examine of what 

stuff 
Time's fetters are composed; and 

life was put 
To inquisition, long and profitless. 
By pain of heart, — now checked, 

and now impelled. 
The Intellectual Power, through 

words and things. 
Went sounding on, a dim and peril- 



ous way 



WOBDSWOKTH. 



DESTINY. 

The Destiny, Minister General, 
That executeth in the world o'er all 
The purveiance that God hath seen 

beforne ; 
So strong it is, that though the 

world had sworn 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. —RELIGIOUS. 



153 



I 



The contrary of a thing by Yea or 

Nay, 
Yet sometime it shall fallen on a day 
Tlifit falloth not eft in a thousand 

year. 
For certainly our appetites here, 
Be it of war, or peace, or hate, or 

love, — 
All this is ruled by the sight above. 
Chaucer. 



FORECAST. 

Or if the soul of proper kind. 
Be so perfect as men fuid, 
That it Avot what is to come, 
And that he warneth all and some 
Of every of their aventures, 
By avisions, or by figures. 
But tliat our flesh hath no might 
To understande it aright, 
For it is warned too derkely, 
But why the cause is, not wot I. 

Chaucer. 



FORECAST. 



There are points from which we 

can command our life. 
When the soul sweeps the future 

like a glass, 
And coming things, full-freighted 

with our fate, 
Jut out dark on the oflBng of the 

mind. 

Bailey: Festus. 



A POET'S HOPE. 

Lady, there is a hope that all men 
have. 

Some mercy for their faults, a grassy 
place 

To rest in, and a flower-strewn, 
gentle grave ; 

Another hope which purifies our 
race, 

That when that fearful bourn for- 
ever past, 

Tliey may find rest, — and rest so 
long to last. 

I seek it not, I ask no rest forever. 
My patli is onward to the farthest 
shores, — 



Upbear me in your arms, unceasing 

river. 
That from the soul's clear fountain 

swiftly pours. 
Motionless not, until the end is 

won. 
Which now I feel hath scarcely felt 

the sun. 

To feel, to know, to soar unlimited, 
'Mid throngs of light-winged angels 

sweeping far. 
And pore upon the realms unvisited, 
That tesselate the unseen unthought 

star, 
To be the thing that now I feebly 

dream 
Flashing within my faintest, deepest 

gleam. 

Ah, caverns of my soul ! how thick 
your shade, 

Where flows that life by which I 
faintly see, — 

Wave your bright torches, for I 
need your aid, 

Golden-eyed demons of my ances- 
try! 

Your son though blinded hath a 
light within, 

A heavenly fire which ye from suns 
did win. 

Time! O Death! I clasp you in 

my arms. 
For I can soothe an infinite cold 

sorrow. 
And gaze contented on your icy 

channs, 
And that wild snow-pile which we 

call to-morrow ; 
Sweep on, O soft, and azure-lidded 

sky, 
Earth's waters to your gentle gaze 

reply. 

1 am not earth-born, though I here 

delay ; 

Hope's child, I summon infiniter 
powers ; 

And laugh to see the mild and sunny 
day 

Smile on the shrunk and thin au- 
tumnal hours ; 

I laugh, for hope hath happy place 
with me. 

If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea. 
Channing. 



154 



PARNASSUS. 



THE UNDERTAKING. 

I HAVE done one braver thing 
Than all the Worthies did ; 
And yet a braver thence doth spring, 
Which is, to keep that hid. 

It were but madness now to impart 

The skill of specular stone, 

When he, which can have learned 

the art 
To cut it, can find none. 

So, if I now should utter this. 
Others (because no more 
Such stuff to work upon there is) 
Would love but as before. 

But he, who loveliness within 
Hath found, all outward loathes ; 
For he who color loves and skin, 
Loves but their oldest clothes. 

If, as I have, you also do 
Virtue in women see. 
And dare love that, and say so too. 
And forget the he and she ; 

And if this love, though placed so. 
From profane men you hide, 
Wlio will no faith on this bestow, 
Or, if they do, deride : 

Then you have done a braver thing 
Than all the Worthies did. 
And a braver thence will spring. 
Which is, to keep that hid. 

Donne. 



CHAEACTER. 

How seldom, friends, a good great 

man inherits 
Honor or wealth with all his worth 

and pains ! 
It sounds like stories from the land 

of spirits. 
If any man obtain that which he 

merits, 
Or any merit that which he obtains — 
For shame, dear friends, renounce 

this canting strain ; 
Wliat wouldst tiaou have a good 

great man obtain ? 
Place, titles, salary, a gilded chain? 
Or throne of corses which his sword 

hath slain ? 



Greatness and goodness are not 
means, but ends: 

Hath he not always treasures, always 
friends, 

The good great man? — three treas- 
ures, Iiove and Liyht, 

And Calm Thoughts regular as in- 
fants' breath; 

And three firm friends, more sure 
than day and night, 

Himself, his Maker, and the angel 
Death. 

Coleridge. 



THAT EACH THING IS HURT 
OF ITSELF. 

Why fearest thou the outward foe, 

When thou thyself thy harm dost 
feed ? 
Of grief or hurt, of pain or woe, 

Within each thing is sown the seed^ 
So fine was never yet the cloth. 

No smith so hard his iron did beat, 
But til' one consumed was with moth 

Th' other with canker all to-f reatei 

The knotty oak and wainscot old 

Within doth eat the silly worm; 
Even so a mind in envy rolled 

Always within itself doth burn. 
Thus every thing that nature wrought, 

Within itself "his hurt doth bear! 
No outward harm need to be sought. 

Where enemies be within so near. 
Anonymous. 



MY MIND TO ME A KING- 
DOM IS. 

My mind to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfect joy therein I find 
As far exceeds all earthly blisse 

That God or Nature hath assigned 
Though much I want that most 

would have, 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

Content I live ; this is my stay — 

I seek no more than may suffice. 
I press to bear no haughty sway ; 
Look, what I lack my mind sup- 
plies. 
Lo ! thus I triumph like a king. 
Content vvith that my mind dotL 
bring. 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. —RELIGIOUS. 



155 



I sec liow pleiitie surfeits oft, 

And hasty climbers soonest fall ; 
I see that such as sit aloft 

Misljap (loth threaten most of all. 
These get with toil, and keep with 

fear ; 
Such cares my mind could never 
bear. 

No princely pomp nor wealthy store, 
No force to win the victory, 

No wily wit to salve a sore, 
No shape to win a lover's eye — 

To none of these I yield as thrall ; 

For why, my mind despiseth all. 

Some have too much, yet still they 
crave ; 
I little have, yet seek no more. 
They are but poor, though much 
they have ; 
And I am rich with little store. 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I lend ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's loss, 
I grudge not at another's gaine ; 

No worldly wave my mind can toss ; 
I brook that is another's bane. 

I feare no foe, nor fawn on friend ; 

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 

I joy not in no earthly blisse ; 

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a 
straw ; 
For care, I care not what it is ; 

I fear not fortune's fatal law; 
My mind is such as may not move 
For beauty bright, or force of love. 

I wish but what I have at will ; 

I wander not to seek for more ; 
3 like the plain, I climb no hill ; 

In greatest storms I sit on shore. 
And laugh at them that toil in vain 
To get what must be lost again. 

I kisse not where I wish to kill ; 

I feign not love where most I hate ; 
I break no sleep to win my will ; 

I wait not at the mighty's gate. 
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich ; 
I feel no want, nor have too much. 

The court nor cart I like nor loathe ; 

Extremes are counted worst of all ; 
The golden mean betwixt them both 

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall ; 



This is my choyce ; for why, I find 
No wealth is like a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect 
ease; 
My conscience clear my chief 
defence ; 
I never seek by bribes to please. 
Nor by desert to give offence. 
Thus do I live, thus will I die ; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 

William Bvkd. 



AN HONEST MAN'S FOKTUNE. 

You that can look through Heaven, 

and tell the stars, 
Observe their kind conjunctions, 

and their wars ; 
Find out new lights, and give them 

where you please. 
To these men honors, pleasures, to 

those ease ; 
You that are God's svirveyors, and 

can show 
How far, and when, and why the 

wind doth blow ; 
Know all the charges of the dread- 
ful thunder. 
And when it will shoot over, or fall 

imder : 
Tell me, by all your art I conjure ye, 
Yes, and by truth, what shall be- 
come of me ? 
Find out my star, if each one, as 

you say. 
Have his peculiar Angel, and his 

way; 
Observe my fate, next fall into your 

dreams. 
Sweep clean your houses, and new 

line your seams, 
Then say your worst: or have I 

none at all ? 
Or is it burnt out lately? or did 

fall? 
Or am I poor, not able, no full flame ? 
My star, like me, unworthy of a 

name ? 
Is it, your art can only work on 

those 
That deale with dangers, dignities, 

and cloathes ? 
With love, or new opinions ? you all 

lye, 
A fishwife hath a fate, and so have I, 



156 



PARNASSUS. 



But far above your finding; He 

that gives, 
Out of his providence, to all that 

lives ; 
He that made all the stars, you daily 

read, 
And from thence filch a knowledge 

how to feed ; 
Hath hid this from you, your con- 
jectures all 
Are drunken things, not how, but 

when they fall ; 
Man is his own star, and the soul 

that can 
Kender an honest, and a perfect 

man 
Commands all light, all influence, 

all fate, 
Nothing to him falls early or too 

late. 
Our acts our Angels are, or good, or 

ill, 
Our fatal shadows that walk by us 

still. 
And when the stars are laboring we 

believe 
It is not that they govern, but they 

grieve 
Our stubborn ignorance; all things 

that are 
Made for our general uses are at war. 
Even we among ourselves, and from 

the strife 
Your first unlike opinions got a life. 
O man, thou image of thy Maker's 

good, 
What canst thou fear, when breathed 

into thy blood 
His spirit is, that built thee? what 

dull sense 
Makes thee suspect, in need, that 

providence ? 
Who made the morning, and who 

placed the light 
Guide to thy labors ? who called up 

the night. 
And bid her fall upon thee, like sweet 

showers 
In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy 

powers ? 
Wlio gave thee knowledge ? who so 

trusted thee, 
To let thee grow so near himself, the 

Tree? 
Must he then be distrusted? shall 

his frame 
Discourse with him, why thus, and 

thus I am ? 



He made the Angels thine, thy fel- 
lows all, 
Nay, even thy servants, when devo- 
tions call. 
Oh canst thou be so stupid then, so 

dim, 
To seek a saving influence, and lose 

him? 
Can Stars protect thee ? or can pov- 
erty. 
Which is the light to Heaven, put 

out his eye? 
He is my star; in him all truth I 

find, 
All influence, all fate, and when my 

mind 
Is furnished with his fuUnesse, my 

poor story 
Shall outlive all their Age, and all 

their glory. 
The hand qf danger cannot fall 

amiss. 
When I know what, and in whose! 

power it is. 
Nor want, the cause of man, shall 

make me groan ; 
A holy hermit is a mind alone. 
Doth not experience teach us all we 

can 
To work ourselves into a glorious 

man? 
Love's but an exhalation to best eyes 
The matter's spent, and then the 

fool's fire dyes? 
Were I in love, and could that bright 

star bring 
Increase to wealth, honor, and every 

thing : 
Were she as perfect good as we can 

aim, — 
The first was so, and yet she lost the 

Game. 
My mistress then be knowledge and 

f aire truth ; 
So I enjoy all beauty and all youth, 
And though to Time her lights and 

laws she lends, 
She knows no Age that to corruption 

bends. 
Friends' promises may lead me to 

believe, 
But he that is his own friend knows 

to live. 
AflSiction, when I know it, is but 

this, 
A deep alloy whereby man tougher is 
To bear the hammer; and the deeper 

still, — 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL— RELIGIOUS. 



157 



We still arise more image of his 

will. 
Sickness an humorous cloud 'twixt 

us and light, 
And Deatli, at longest but another 

night. 
Man is his own Star, and that soul 

that can 
Be honest is the only perfect man. 
John Fletcher, 



PEACE. 

Sweet Peace, where dost thou 
dwell ? I humbly crave, 
Let me once know. 
I sought thee in a secret cave ; 
And asked, if Peace were 
there. 
A hollow wind did seem to answer, 
"No! 
Go, seek elsewhere." 

I did; and, going, did a rainbow 
note: 

" Surely," thought I, 
"This is the lace of Peace's 
coat. 
I will search out the mat- 
ter." 
But, while I looked, the clouds im- 
mediately 
Did break and scatter. 

Then went I to a garden, and did 

spy 

A gallant flower, — 
The crown-imperial. "Sure," 
■ said I, 

" " Peace at the root must 

dwell." 
But, when I digged, I saw a worm 
devour 
What showed so well. 

At length I met a reverend, good old 
man ; 
^Vhom when for Peace 
I did demand, he thus began : — 
" There was a prince of old 
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good 
increase 
Of flock and fold. 

" He sweetly lived ; yet sweetness 
did not save 

His life from foes. 



But, after death, out of his grave 
There sprang twelve stalks 
of wheat ; 
Which many wondering at, got some 
of those 
To plant and set. 

"It prospered strangely, and did 
soon disperse 
Through all the earth. 
For they that taste it do re- 
hearse, 
That virtue hes therein, — 
A secret virtue, bringing peace and 
mirth. 

By flight of sin. 

" Take of this grain, which in my 
garden grows. 
And grows for you : 
Make bread of it; and that re- 
pose 
And peace which every- 
where 
With so much earnestness you do 
pursue, 
Is only there." 

Hekbekt. 



JOY. 

O Joy, hast thou a shape ? 

Hast thou a breath ? 

How fiUest thou the soundless air ? 

Tell me the pillars of thy house ! 

What rest they on ? Do they escape 

The victory of Death ? 

And are they fair 

Eternally, who enter in thy house ? 

O Joy, thou viewless spirit, canst 

thovx dare 
To teil the pillars of thy house ? 

On adamant of pain 

Before the earth 

Was born of sea, before the sea. 

Yea, and before the light, my house 

Was built. None know what loss, 

what gain. 
Attends each travail birth. 
No soul could be 
At peace when it had entered in my 

house, 
If the foundations it could touch or 



see, 
Which stay the pillars of 



my house ! 
H. H. 



158 



PARNASSUS. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Abou Ben Adhem, (may his tribe 

increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream 

of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in the 

room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in 

i3loom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben 

Adhem bold, 
And to the Presence in the room he 

said, 
" Wliat writest thou ? " The vision 

raised its head. 
And with a look made all of sweet 

accord. 
Answered, " The names of those who 

love the Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Adhem. 

" Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Adhem spoke 

more low, 
But cheerly still, and said, "I pray 

thee, then. 
Write me as one who loves his fel- 
low-men." 
The angel wrote and vanished ; the 

next night 
He came again with a great waken- 
ing light. 
And showed their names whom love 

of God had blest. 
And lo! Ben Adhem' s name led all 

the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 



ORTHODOXY. 

"Nought loves another as itself. 
Nor venerates another so ; 
Nor is it possible to thought, 
A greater than itself to know. 

" And, Father, how can I love you, 
Or any of my brothers more ? 
I love you like the little bird 
That picks up crumbs around the 
door," 

The Priest sat by, and heard the 

child: 
In trembling zeal he seized his hair; 
He led him by his little coat. 
And all admired the priestly care. 



And standing on the altar high, 
"Lo, what a fiend is here!" said 

he, • I 

" One who sets reason up for judg^ j 
Of our most holy Mystery." T ^ 

The weeping child could not be 

heard ; 
The weeping parents wept in vain ; 
They stript him to his little shirt, 
And bound him in an iron chain ; 

.And burned him in a holy place, 
Where many had been burned 

before ; 
The weeping parents wept in vain : 
Are such things done on Albion's 

shore ? 

William Blake, 



THE TOUCHSTONE, 



II 



A MAN there came, whence none 

could tell, 
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand, 
And tested all things in the laud 
By its unerring spell. 

A thousand transformations rose 
From fair to foul, from foul to fair 
The golden crown he did not spare. 
Nor scorn the beggars clothes. 

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, 
Were many changed to chips and 

clods ; 
And even statues of the Gods 
Crumbled beneath its touch. 

Then angrily the people cried, 
" The loss outweighs the profit far; 
Our goods suffice us as they are : 
We will not have them tried." 



And, since they could not so avail 
To check his unrelenting quest. 
They seized him, saying, "Let him 

test 
How real is our jail ! " 



m 

4< 



But though they slew him with the 

sword. 
And in a fire his Touchstone burned, 
Its doings could not be o'erturned, 
Its undoings restored. 






CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



159 



And when, to stop all future harm, 
They strewed its ashes on the 

breeze. 
They little guessed each grain of 

these 
Conveyed the perfect charm. 

Allingham. 

rRAYERS. 

Isabella. — Hark, how I'll bribe 

you. 
Ay, with such gifts that Heaven 

shall share with you. 
Not with fond shekels of the tested 

gold, 
Or stones, whose rates are either 

rich, or poor. 
As fancy values them ; but with true 

prayers, 
That shall be up at heaven, and enter 

there, 
Ere sunrise ; prayers from preserved 

souls. 
From fasting maids, whose minds 

are dedicate 
To nothing temporal. 
Shakspeare: Measure for Measure. 



SIN. 

Lord, with what care hast thou 
begirt us round ! 
Parents first season us; then 
schoolmasters 
Deliver us to laws; they send us 
bound 
To rules of reason, holy messen- 
gers — 

Pulpits and Sundays; sorrow dog- 
ging sin ; 
Afflictions sorted; anguish of all 
sizes ; 
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us 
in ; 
Bibles laid open; millions of sur- 
prises ; 

Blessings beforehand ; ties of grate- 
fulness ; 
The sound of glory ringing in our 
oars ; 
Without, our shame; within, our 
consciences ; 
Angels and grace; eternal hopes 
and fears — 



h 



Yet all these fences, and their whole 
array. 
One cunning bosom-sin blows 
quite away. 

Herbert. 



WAYFARERS. 

How they go by — those sti-ange and 
dreamlike men ! 
One glance on each, one gleam 
from out each eye. 
And that I never looked upon till 
now. 
Has vanished out of siglit as in- 
stantly. 

Yet in it passed there a whole heart 
and life. 
The only key it gave that tran- 
sient look ; 
But for this key its great event in 
time 
Of peace or strife to me a sealed 
book. 

E. S. H. 



THE STRANGERS. 

Each care-worn face is but a book 
To tell of houses bought or sold ; 
Or filled with words that men have 
took 
From those who lived and spoke 
of old. 

I see none whom I know, for they 
See other things than him they 
meet ; 

And though they stop me by the way, 
'Tis still some other one to greet. 

There are no words that reach my 
ear; 
Those speak who tell of other 
things 
Than what they mean for me to hear, 
For in their speech the counter 
rings. 

I would be where each word is true. 
Each eye sees what it looks upon ; 
For here my eye has seen but few 
Who in each act that act have 
done. 

Jones Very. 



160 



PARNASSUS. 



PILGRIMAGE. 

Give me my scallop-shell of Quiet, 
My staff of Faith to walk upon, 
My scrip of Joy, immortal diet ; 
My bottle of salvation ; 
My Gown of Glory, (Hope's true 

gage) 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. 

Blood must be my body's balmer, 
AVliilst my soul, like a quiet Palmer, 
Travelleth towards the land of 

Heaven ; 
No other balm will there be given. 
Over the silver mountains 
Where spring the nectar fountains, 
There will I kiss 
The bowl of bliss, 
And drink mine everlasting fill. 
Upon every milken hill; 
My soul will be a-dry before, 
But after, it will thirst no more. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



SLEEP. 

Tired Nature's sweet restorer, 

balmy sleep, — 
He, like the world, his ready visits 

pays 
Where fortune smiles : the wretched 

he forsakes, 
And lights on lids unsullied by a 

tear. 

Young. 



SLEEP. 

How many thousands of my poorest 

subjects 
Are at this hour asleep ! — O Sleep ! 

O gentle sleep ! 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I 

frighted thee. 
That thou no more wilt weigh my 

eyelids down, 
And steep my senses in forgetful- 

ness? 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in 

smoky cribs, 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee. 
And liuslied with buzzing night-flies 

to thy slumber ; 
Than in the perfumed chambers of 

the great, 



Under the canopies of costly state. 
And lulled with sounds of sweetest 

melody ? 
O thou dull god, why liest thou with 

the vile. 
In loathsome beds; and leav'stthe 

kingly couch, 
A watch-case, or a common 'larum 

bell? 
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy 

mast 
Seal up tlie ship-boy's eyes, and 

rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious 

surge ; 
And in the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the 

top, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and 

hanging them 
With deafening clamors in the slip- 
pery clouds, 
That, with the hurly, death itself 

awakes ? 
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give 

thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so 

rude ; 
And, in the calmest and most still- 
est night. 
With all appliances and means to boot, 
Deny it to a king? Then, happy 

low, lie down ! 
Uneasy lies the head that wears s 

crown. 
Shakspeare : King Henri/ IV, 



HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY. 

To be, or not to be, that is th 
question : — 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, t( 

suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous 

fortune ; 
Or to take arms against a sea oj 

troubles. 
And, by opposing, end them ? — Tc 

die, — to sleep, — 
No more; — and, by a sleep, to saj 

we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand 

natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a coU' 

summation 
Devoutly to be wished. To die;— 

to sleep : — 



I 



CONTEiMPLATlVE. — MORAL— RELIGIOUS. 



161 



Tit sleep ! perchance to dream ; — ay, 

there's the rub; 
For in that sleep of death what 

dreams may come, 
Wlieii we have shuffled off this mor- 
tal coil. 
Must give us pause : there's the 

respect, 
That makes calamity of so long life ; 
For who would bear the whips and 

scorns of time, 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud 

man's contumely, 
The pangs of despised love, the 

law's delay, 
The insolence of oflSce, and the 

spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy 

takes, 
Wlien he himself might his quietus 

make, 
With a bare bodkin? Who would 

fardels bear 
To grunt and sweat under a weary 

life; 
But that the dread of something 

after death, — 
The undiscovered country, from 

whose bourn 
No traveller returns, — puzzles the 

will, 
And makes us rather bear those ills 

we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not 

of? 
Thus conscience does make cowards 

of us all, 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of 

thought ; 
And enterprises of great pith and 

moment, 
With this regard, their currents turn 

awry, 
And lose the name of action. — Soft 

you, now ! 
The fair Ophelia: — NjTuph, in thy 

orisons 
Be all my sins remembered. 

Shakspeare. 



LIFE AND DEATH. 

Keason thus with life, — 
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
That none but fools would keep : a 
breath thou art, 
11 



Servile to all the skyey influences. 

That dost this habitation, where thou 
keep' st, 

Hourly afflict. Thou art by no 
means valiant; 

For thou dost fear the soft and ten- 
der fork 

Of a poor worm : thy best of rest is 
sleep. 

And that thou oft provok'st; yet 
grossly fear'st 

Thy death, which is no more. 

Shakspeake : Measure/or Measure. 



LIFE AND DEATH. 

Ay, but to die, and g^ we know 
not where, 

To lie in cold obstruction, and to 
rot: 

This sensible warm motion to be- 
come 

A kneaded clod; and the delighted 
spirit 

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 

In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed 
ice; 

To be imprisoned in the viewless 
winds, 

And blown with restless violence 
round about 

The pendent world ; or to be worse 
than worst 

Of those, that lawless and incertain 
thoughts 

Imagine howling I — 'tis too liorrible I 

The weariest and most loathed 
worldly life. 

That age, ache, penury, and impris- 
onment 

Can lay on nature, is a paradise 

To what we fear of death. 

Shakspeare : Measure for Measure. 



INSCRIPTION ON MELROSE 
ABBEY. 

The earth goes on the earth glitter- 
ing in gold, 

The earth goes to the earth sooner 
than it would ; 

The earth builds on the earth castles 
and towers, 

The earth says to the earth — All 
this is ours. 



162 



PAKNASSUS. 



INSCRIPTION ON A WALL IN 
ST. EDMUND'S CHURCH IN 
LOMBARD STREET, LONDON. 

Man, thee belioveth oft to have this 

in mind, 
That thou givest with thine hand, 

that tliou shalt ftnd ; 
For widows be slothful, and children 

be unkind, 
Executors be covetous, and keep all 

that they find 
If anybody ask where the dead's 

goods became ? 
So God help me and Halidam, he 

died a poor man. 



INSCRIPTION IN MARBLE IN 
THE PARISH CHURCH OF 
FAVERSHAM, /iV^GEO CAN- 
TIANO. 

Wnoso him bethoft 
Inwardly and oft, 
How hard it were to flit 
From bed unto the pit. 
From pit unto pain 
That ne'er shall cease again, 
He would not do one sin 
All the world to win. 



LAODAMIA. 

"With sacrifice, before the rising 
morn 

Performed, my slaughtered lord have 
I required ; 

And in thick darkness, amid shades 
forlorn, 

Him of the infernal gods have I de- 
sired : 

Celestial pity I again implore ; — 

Restore him to my sight, great Jove, 
restore!" 

So speaking, and by fervent love en- 
dowed 

With faith, the suppliant heaven- 
ward lifts her hands ; 

While, like the sun emerging from a 
cloud. 

Her countenance brightens — and 
her eye expands, 



Her bosom heaves and spreads, her 

stature grows. 
And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror ! what hath she perceived ? 

joy! 

What doth she look on — whom doth 
she behold ? 

Her hero slain upon the beach of 
Troy? 

His vital presence — his corporeal 
mould ? 

It is — if sense deceive her not — 
'tis he! 

And a god leads him — winged Mer- 
cury ! 

Mild Hermes spake, and touched her 
with his wand 

That calms all fear: "Such grace 
hath crowned thy prayer, 

Laodamia, that at Jove's command £ 

Thy husband walks the paths of up- 
per air : 

He comes to tarry with thee three 
hours' space; 

Accept the gift ; behold him face to 
face!" 

Forth sprang the impassioned queen. 

her lord to clasp ; 
Again that consummation she es- 

sayed ; 
But unsubstantial form eludes her 

grasp 
As often as that eager grasp wa^ 

made. 
The phantom parts — but parts to 

re-unite. 
And re-assume his place before her 

sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 

Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy 
voice : 

This is our palace, — yonder is thy 
throne ; 

Speak, and the floor thou tread' st on 
will rejoice. 

Not to appall me have the gods be- 
stowed 

This precious boon, — and blessed a 
sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not 

leave 
His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though, 

1 be, 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL, — RELIGIOUS. 



163 



I ;un not sent to scare thee or de- 
ceive, 

But in reward of thy fidelity. 

And something also did my worth 
obtain ; 

For fearless virtue bringeth bound- 
less gain. 

"Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle 
foretold 

That the first Greek who touched 
the Trojan strand 

Should die; but me the threat did 
not withhold: 

A generous cause a victim did de- 
mand ; 

And forth I leaped upon the sandy 
plain ; 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector 
slain." 

"Supreme of heroes — bravest, no- 
blest, best! 

Thy matchless courage 1 bewail no 
more, 

That then, when tens of thousands 
Avere depressed 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal 
shore ; 

Thou found' st — and I forgive thee 
— here thou art — 

A nobler counsellor than my poor 
heart. 

" But thou, though capable of stern- 
est deed, 

Wert Idnd as resolute, and good as 
brave ; 

And He, whose power restores thee, 
hath decreed 

That thou shouldst cheat the malice 
of the grave; 

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips 
as fair 

As when their breath enriched 
Thessalian air. 

" No spectre greets me, — no vain 
shadow this : 

Come, blooming hero, place thee by 
my side ! 

Give, on this well-known couch, one 
nuptial kiss 

To me, this day a second time thy 
bride!" 

Jove frowned in heaven : the con- 
scious Parcae threw 

Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 



" This visage tells thee that my doom 

is past: 
Know, virtue were not virtue if the 

Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. — Earth 
destroys 

Those raptures duly t- Erebus dis- 
dains : 

Calm pleasures there abide — ma- 
jestic pains. 

"Be taught, O faithfid consort, to 
control 

Rebellious passion: for the gods 
approve 

The depth, and not the tumult of 
the soul; 

A fervent, not ungovernable love. 

Thy transports moderate ; and meek- 
ly mourn 

When I depart, for brief is my so- 
journ " — 

"Ah, wherefore? — Did not Her- 
cules by force 

Wrest from the guardian monster of 
the tomb 

Alcestis, a re-animated corse, 

Given back to dwell on earth in 
vernal bloom ? 

Medea's spells dispersed the weight 
of years, 

Ajid ^son stood a youth 'mid 
youthful peers. 

"The gods to us are merciful — and 
they 

Yet further may relent : for mightier 
far 

Than strength of nerve and sinew, 
or the sway 

Of magic, potent over sun and 
star. 

Is love — though oft to agony dis- 
tressed ; 

And though his favorite seat be 
feeble woman's breast. 

"But if thou goest, I follow" — 

" Peace ! " he said — 
She looked upon him, and was 

calmed and cheered ; 
The ghastly color from his lips had 

fled; 
In his deportment, shape, and mien, 

appeared 



164 



PAKNASSUS. 



Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 
Brought from a i^eusive though a 
happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as spirits 
feel 

In worlds whose course is equable 
and pure ; 

No fears to beat away — no strife to 
heal — 

The past unsighed for, and the fu- 
ture sure ; 

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 

Kevived, with finer harmony pur- 
sued; 

Of all that is most beauteous — 

imaged there 
In happier beauty; more pellucid 

streams. 
An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
And fields invested with purpureal 

gleams ; 
Climes which the sun, who sheds 

the brightest day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to 

survey. 

Yet there the soul shall enter which 
hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — " III," 
said he, 

*' The end of man's existence I dis- 
cerned. 

Who from ignoble games and 
revelry 

Could draw, when we had parted, 
vain delight. 

While tears were thy best pastime, 
day and night : 

" And while my youthful peers, 

before my eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar 

bent). 
Prepared themselves for glorious 

enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in 

the tent, 
Chieftains and kings in council were 

detained ; 
Wliat time the fleet at Aulis lay 

enchained. 

" The wished-for wind was given : — 

I then revolved 
Our future course, upon the silent 

sea; 



And, if no worthier Jed the way, re- 
solved 

That, of a thousand vessels, min«i, 
should be 

The foremost prow in pressing to the 
strand, — 

Mine the first blood that tinged the, 
Trojan sand. 

" Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the 
pang 

When of thy loss I thought, beloved 
wife ; 

On thee too fondly did my memory 
hang. 

And on the joys we shared in mortal 
life, — 

The paths which we had trod — 
these fountains — flowers; 

My new-planned cities, and un- 
finished towers. 

"But should suspense permit the 

foe to cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! haughty their 

array, 
Yet of their number no one dares to 

die?' — 
In soul I swept the indignity away : 
Old frailties then recurred : but lofty 

thovight. 
In act embodied, my deliverance 

wrought. 

" And thou, though strong in love, 

art all too weak 
In reason, in self-government too 

slow; 
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
Our blessed re-union in tlie shades 

below. 
The invisible world with thee hath 

sympathized ; 
Be thy affections raised and sol 

emnized. 

" Learn by a mortal yearning to 

ascend, 
Seeking a higher object : — Love 

was given. 
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for 

that end : 
For this the passion to excess was 

driven — 
That self might be annulled; her 

bondage prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to 

love." 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



165 



A-loud she shrinked! for Hermes 

re-appears ! 
Koimd the dear shade she would 

have cluug — 'tis vain : 
The hour.s are past — too brief had 

they been years ; 
And him no mortal elYort can de- 
tain : 
Swift, toward the realms that know 

not earthly day, 
He through the portal takes his 

silent Avay — 
And on the palace floor a lifeless 

corse she lay. 

Ah, judge her gently who so deeply 
loved ! 

Her, who, in reason's spite, yet 
without crime. 

Was in a trance of passion thus re- 
moved ; 

Delivered from the galling yoke of 
time, 

And these frail elements — to gather 
flowers 

Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading 
bowers. 

Yet tears to human suffering are 

due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and 

o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by 

man alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the 

side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was enter- 
tained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom 

she died ; 
And ever, when such stature they 

had gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to 

their view. 
The trees' tall summits withered at 

the sight ; 
^ constant interchange of growth 

and blight! 

WORD.SWOKTH. 



TITHONUS. 

The woods decay, the woods decay 

and fall. 
The vapors weep their burthen to 

the ground, 



Man comes and tills the field and 

lies beneath, 
And after many a summer dies the 

swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes : I wither slowly in thin<^ 

arms. 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-haired shadow roaming like 

a dream 
The ever silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls 

of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a 

man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy 

choice, 
Wlio madest him thy chosen, that he 

seemed 
To his great heart none other than a 

God! 
I asked thee, "Give me immortal- 
ity." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking 

with a smile, 
Like wealthy men who care not how 

they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant 

worked their wills, 

And beat me down and marred and 

wasted me. 
And though they could not end me, 

left me maimed 
To dwell in presence of immortal 

youth. 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy 

love, 
Thy beauty, make amends, though 

even now. 
Close over us, the silver star, thy 

guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes tliat 

fill with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back 

thy gift: 
Wliy should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men. 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Wliere all should pause, as is most 

meet for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart; 
there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where 
I was born. 



166 



I'ARNASSUS. 



Once more the old mysterious gliiu- 

mer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy 

shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart re- 
newed. 
Thy cheek begins to redden through 

the gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close 

to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the 

wild team 
Wliich love thee, yearning for thy 

yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their 

loosened manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of 

fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beau- 
tiful 

In silence, then before thine answer 
given 

Departest, and thy tears are on my 
cheek. 

Wliy wilt thou ever scare me with 

thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying 

learnt, 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, 

be true ? 
" The Gods themselves cannot recall 

their gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 

heart 
In days far-off, and with what other 

eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that 

watched — 
The lucid outline forming round 

thee; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny 

rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, 

and felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly 

crimsoned all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while 

I lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing 

dewy-wann 
With kisses balmier than half-open- 
ing buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips 

that kissed 



Whispering I knew not what of wild 

and sweet. 
Like that strange song I heard 

Apollo sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into 

towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine 

East : 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, 

cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my 

wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, 

when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about 

the homes 
Of happy men that have the power 

to die. 
And grassy barrows of the happier 

dead. 
Kelease me, and restore me to the 

ground ; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see 

my grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn : 
I earth in earth forget these empty 

courts. 
And thee returning on thy silver 

wheels. 

Tennyson. 



COME MOEIR. 

He leaves the earth, and says, 

enough and more 
Unto thee have I given, oh Earth. — 

For all 
With hand free and ungrudging gave 

I up, — 
But now I leave thy pale hopes and 

dear pains. 
The rude fields where so many years 

I've tilled, 
And where no other feeling gave me 

strength. 
Save that from them my home was 

aye in view. 
For only transient clouds could hide 

from me 
My spirit's home, whence it came, 

where should go ; — 
Enough, more than enough, now let 

me rest. 

S. G. W 



CONTEMPLATIVE. - MORAL. —RELIGIOUS. 



167 



THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. 

Ye sigh not when the sun, his 
course fulfilled, 
His glorious course, rejoicing earth 
ami sky, 

In the soft evening, when the winds 
are stilled. 
Sinks where his islands of refresh- 
ment lie, 

And leaves the smile of his departure 
spread 

O'er the warm-colored heaven and 
ruddy mountain head. 

Why weep ye then for him, who, 
having avou 
The bound of man's appointed 
years, at last. 
Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's 
labors done. 
Serenely to his final rest has 
passed ; 
■\Vhile the soft memory of his virtues 

yet 
Lingers like twilight hues, when the 
bright sun is set ? 

Bkyant. 



DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 

The garlands wither on your brow, 
Then boast no more your mighty 
deeds ; 
Upon death's puq^le altar now. 
See where the victor-victim bleeds : 
All heads must come 
To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet and blossom in the 
dust. 

James Shibley. 



STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE 
CHURCHYARD OF RICH- 
MOND, YORKSHIRE. 

"It is good for us to be here: if thou 
■wilt, let us make liere three tabernacles, 
one for thee, one for Moses, and one for 
Elias." — St. Matthew. 

Methixks it is good to be here, 

If thou wilt let us build, — but for 

whom ? 
Nor Elias nor Moses appear; 



But the shadows of eve that encom- 
pass with gloom 

The abode of the dead and the place 
of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah, no ! 
Affrighted, he shriuketh away, — 
For see, they wovild i^in him below 
In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt 

with cold clay. 
To the meanest of reptiles a fear and 

a prey. 

To Beauty ? Ah, no ! she forgets 

The charms which she wielded be- 
fore. 

Nor knows the foul worm that he 
frets 

The skin that but yesterday fools 
could adore. 

For the smoothness it held, or the 
tint which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
The trai^pings which dizen the 

proud ? 
Alas ! they are all laid aside. 
And here's neither dress nor adorn- 
ment allowed. 
Save the long winding-sheet and the 
fringe of the shroud. 

To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain; 
Who hide in their turns have been 

hid; 
The treasures are squandered again ; 
And here in the grave are all metals 

forbid. 
Save the tinsel that shines on the 

dark coffin lid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth cau 

afford. 
The revel, the laugh and the jeer? 
Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
But the guests are all mute at their 

pitiful cheer, 
And none but the worm is a reveller 

here. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
Ah, no! They have withered and 

died. 
Or fled with the spirit above : 
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are 

laid side by side. 
Yet none have .saluted, and none 

have replied. 



168 



PARNASSUS, 
The dead cannot 



Uuto Sorrow? 

grieve ; 

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine 
ear, 

Wliich Compassion itself could re- 
lieve. 

Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, 
hope, or fear, 

Peace, peace ! is the watchword, the 
only one here. 



Unto Death, to whom monarchs 

must bow ? 
Ah, no ! for his empire is known, 
And here there are trophies enow ! 
Beneath the cold head, and around 

the dark stone. 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none 

may disown. 



The first tabernacle to Hope we will 

build. 
And look for the sleepers around us 

to rise ! 
The second to Faith, which insures 

it fulfilled ; 
And the third to the Lamb of the 

great sacrifice. 
Who bequeathed us them both when 

he rose to the skies. 

Hekbebt Knowles. 



THANATOPSIS. 

. . . Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no 

more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold 

ground, 
VVliere thy pale form was laid, with 

many tears. 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall 

exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished 

thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth 

again ; 
And lost each hixmau trace, sur- 
rendering up 



Thine individual being, shalt thou 

go 
To mix forever with the elements, 
To be a brother to the insensible rock. 
And to the sluggish clod, which the 

rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads 

upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and 

pierce thy mould. 
Yet not to thy eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone — norcouldst 

thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt 

lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world, 

— with kings. 

The powerful of the earth, — the 

wise, the good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages 

past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The 

hills 
Kock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, 

— the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness be- 
tween ; 
The venerable woods, — rivers that 

move 
In majesty, and the complaining 

brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and 

poured round all. 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy 

waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The 

golden sun. 
The planets, all the infinite host of 

heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of 

death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All 

that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the 

tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. . . . 

So live, that when thy summons 

comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, that 

moves 
To that mysterious realm, where 

each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of 

death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave 

at night, 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



169 



Sc.Mirged to his dungeon, but sus- 
tahu'd and soothed 

By an unfaltering trust, approach 
thy grave, 

Li lie one who Avraiis the drapery of 
his couch 

About him, and lies down to pleas- 
ant dreams. 

Bryant. 



TO BE NO MORE. 

To be no more — sad cure ; for who 

would lose 
Though full of pain, this intellectual 

being, 
Those thoughts that wander through 

eternity, . 
To perish rather, swallowed up and 

lost 
In the wide womb of uncreated 

night, 
Devoid of sense and motion ? 

Milton. 



LIFE. 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must 

part ; 
And when, or how, or where we 

met, 
I own to me's a secret yet. 

Life! we've been long together, 
Through pleasant and through 

cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are 

dear — 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; 
Then steal away, give little warn- 

iiiSi 
Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good-night, — but in some 

brighter clime 
Bid me Good-morning. 

Bakbauld. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUN- 
TRY CHURCHYARD. 

TiiK curfew tolls the knell of parting 
day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er 
the lea, 



The ploughman homeward plods his 
weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkneso 
and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape 
on the sight. 
And all the air a solemn stillness 
holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his 
droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the dis- 
tant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled 
tower. 
The moping owl does to the moon 
complain 
Of such as, wandering near her se- 
cret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that 
yew-tree's shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a 
mouldering heap. 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet 
sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing 
morn. 
The swallow twittering from the 
straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echo- 
ing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from 
their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth 
shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening 
care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's 
return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss 
to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle 
yield. 
Their furrow oft the stubborn 
glebe has broke : 
How jocund did they drive their 
team afield ! 
How bowed the woods beneath 
their sturdy stroke ! 



170 



PARNASSUS. 



Let not ambition mock their useful 
toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny ob- 
scure ; 
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful 
smile 
The short and simple annals of the 
poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of 
power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth, 
e'er gave, 
Await alike the inevitable hour. 
The paths of glory lead but to the 
grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these 
the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no tro- 
phies raise, 
■Wliere through the long-drawn aisle 
and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the 
note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust. 
Back to its mansion call the fleet- 
ing breath ? 
Can honor's voice provoke the si- 
lent dust. 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear 
of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with 

celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might 

have swayed. 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But knowledge to their eyes her 
ample page, 
Eich with the spoils of time, did 
ne'er unroll; 
Chill penury repressed their noble 
rage, 
And froze the genial current of 
the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray se- 
rene 
The dark unfathomed caves of 
ocean bear : 
Full many a flower is born to blush 
unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the 
desert air. 



Some village-Hampden, that, with 
dauntless breast. 
The little tyrant of his fields with- 
stood, 
Some mute inglorious Milton here 
may rest, 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his 
country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to 
command. 
The threats of pain and ruin to 
despise. 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
And I'ead their history in a na- 
tion's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed 
alone 
Their growing virtues, but their 
ci'imes confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter 
to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on 
mankind, 

The struggling pangs of conscious 
truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenu- 
ous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's 
flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's igno- 
ble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned 
to stray ; 
Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of 
their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to 
protect. 
Some frail memorial still erected 
nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless 
sculpture decked. 
Implores the passing tribute of a 
sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the 
unlettered Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she 
strews, 
That teach the rustic moralist to 
die. 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — INIORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



171 



For who, to dumb forgetfulness a 
prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er 
i-esigned, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheer- 
ful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering 
look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul 
relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye 
requires ; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of 
Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wont- 
ed fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the un- 
honored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless 
tale relate ; 
If chance, by lonely contemplation 
led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire 
thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may 
say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the 
peep of dawn 
Brushing witli hasty steps the dews 
away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland 
lawn : 

" There at the foot of yonder nod- 
ding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic 
roots so high, 
His listless length at noontide would 
he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that bab- 
bles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as 
in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he 
would rove ; 
Now drooping, woful-wan, like one 
forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in 
hopeless love. 

" One morn I missed him on the 
accustomed hill. 
Along the heath, and near his fa- 
vorite tree ; 



Another came; nor yet beside the 
rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, 
was he : 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad 
array. 
Slow through the church-way path 
we saw him borne : — 
Approach and read (foi- thou canst 
read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon 
aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Hei'e rests his head upon the lap of 
earth, 
A youth, to fortune and to fame 
unknown : 
Fair Science frowned not on his 
humble birth. 
And Melancholy marked him for 
her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul 
sincere. 
Heaven did a recompense as large- 
ly send ; 
He gave to misery (all he had) a 
tear. 
He gained from heaven ('twas all 
he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to dis- 
close. 
Or draw his frailties from their 
dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope 
repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his 
God. 

Gray. 



THE SKULL. 

Eemove yon skull from out the 

scattered heaps : 
Is that a temple where a god may 

dwell? 
Why even the worm at last disdains 

her shattered cell ! 

Loolc on its broken arch, its ruined 

wall. 
Its chambers desolate, and portals 

foul : 



172 



PARNASSUS. 



Yes, this was once Ambition's airy 

hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace 

of the Soul : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, 

eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of 

Wit, 
And Passion's host, that never 

brooked control : 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever 

writ. 
People this lonely tower, this tene- 
ment refit ? 

Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, 

there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable 

shore. 
To shame the doctrine of the Sad- 

ducee, 
And sophists, madly vain of dubi- 
ous lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to 

adore 
With those who made our mortal 

labors light ! 
To hear each voice we feared to 

hear no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade revealed 

to sight, 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all 
who taught the right ! 

Byron : Childe Harold. 



THE IMMORTAL MIND. 

When coldness wraps this suffering 
clay, 
Ah, whither strays the immortal 
mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 
But leaves its darkened dust be- 
hind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
By steps each planet's heavenly 
way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 
A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 
A thought unseen, but seeing all. 

All, all in earth, or skies displayed, 
Shall it survey, shall it recall : 

Ekich fainter trace that memory 
holds, 



So darkly of departed years. 
In one broad glance the soul be^ 
holds. 
And all, that was, at once appears. 

Before creation peopled earth. 
Its eyes shall roll through chaos 
back; 
And where the farthest heaven had 
birth, 
The sjiirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or 
makes. 
Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quenched or system 
breaks. 
Fixed in its own eternity. 

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear. 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thoughts 
shall fly ; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 

Bykon. 



CELINDA. 

Walking thus towards a pleasant 

grove. 
Which did, it seemed, in. new delight 
The pleasures of the time unite 
To give a triumph to their love, — 
They staid at last, and on the 

grass 
Reposed so as o'er his breast 
She bowed her gracious head to 

rest. 
Such a weight as no burden was. 
Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent, 
Unchanged they did never move. 
As if so great and pure a love 
No glass but it could represent. 
" These eyes again thine eyes shall 

see, 
Thy hands again these hands infold, 
And all chaste pleasures can be told 
Shall with us everlasting be. 
Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch, 
Much less your fairest mind invade ; 
Were not our souls immortal made. 
Our equal loves can make them 

such." 

Lord Edward Herbert. 



I 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



173 



EUTHANASIA. 

But souls that of liis own good life 

partake, 
He loves as his own self ; dear as his 

eye 
They are to him: He'll never them 

forsake : 
■\Vlien they shall die, then God him- 

.self shall die ; 
They live, they live in blest eternity. 
Henky Mobe. 



THE RETREAT. 

Happy those early days when I 
Shined in my angel-infancy ! 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race, 
Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
But a white, celestial thought ; 
When yet I had not walked above 
A mile or two from my first love. 
And looking back, at that short 

space 
Could see a glimpse of his bright 

face; 
When on some gilded cloud or 

flower 
My gazing soul would dwell an hour. 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity : 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My conscience with a sinful sound. 
Or had the black art to dispense 
A several sin to every sense ; 
But felt through all this fleshly 

dress 
Bright shoots of everlastingness. 

O how I long to travel back. 
And tread again that ancient track ! 
That I might once more reach that 

plain 
\Aniere first I left my glorious train. 
From whence the enlightened spirit 

sees 
That !*hady city of palm-trees. 
But ah ! my soul with too much 

stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! 
Some men a forward motion love, 
But I by backward steps would 

move; 
And when this dust falls to the urn. 
In that state I came, return. 

Henry Vaughan. 



IMMORTALITY, 

' Tlie child is father of the man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural pie*^." 



There was a time when meadow, 

grove, and stream. 
The earth, and every common sight,' 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a 

dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of 
yore ; — 
Turn whereso'er I may, 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now 
can see no more. 



The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens 
are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory 
from the earth. 



Now, while the birds thus sing a 
joyous song. 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought 

of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that 
thought relief. 
And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumpets 

from the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the 

season wrong ; 
I hear the echoes through the 

mountains throng. 
The winds come to me from the 
fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 



174 



PARNASSUS. 



And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; 
Tliou cliild of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy 
shouts, thou happy shepherd- 
boy! 



Ye blessed creatures, I have heard 
the call 
Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your 
jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I 
feel it all. 
Oh evil day I if I were sullen 
While the earth herself is 
adorning. 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the children are culling 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and 

wide. 
Fresh flowers; while the sun 
shines warm. 
And the babe leaps up on his 
mother's arm : — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there's a tree, of many 
one, 
A single field which I have looked 

upon, 
Both of them speak of something 
that is gone : 

The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the 
dream ? 



V. 



Our birth is but a sleep and a for- 
getting: 
The soul that rises with us, our 
life's star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting. 

And Cometh from afar : 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we 
come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our in- 
fancy ! 



Shades of the prison-house begin to 

close 

Upon the growing boy, 
But he beholds the light, and 
whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The youth, who daily farther from 
the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest. 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die 

away. 
And fade into the light of common 
day. 



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of 

her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own 

natural kind. 
And, even with something of a 
mother's mind, 

And no unworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her in- 
mate man. 
Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he 
came. 



Behold the child among his new- 
born blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pygmy 

size! 
See, where 'mid work of his own 

hand he lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's 

kisses. 
With light upou him from his 

father's eyes! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or 

chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of 

human life. 
Shaped by himself with newly- 
learned art ; 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart, 
And unto this he frames his 
song : 

Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or 
strife ; 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



175 



But it. will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside, 
And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his "hu- 
morous stage" 
With all the persons, down to pal- 
sied age. 
That Life brings with lier in her 
equipage ; 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 



Thou, whose exterior semblance 

doth belie 
Thy soul's immensity; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet 

dost keep 
Thy heritage; thou eye among the 

blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the 

etei-nal deep, 
Haunted forever by the etex'nal 

mind, — 
Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to 

find; 
(In darkness lost, the darkness of 

the grave;) 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a 

slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in 

the might 
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy 

being's height, 
Wliy with such earnest pains dost 

thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at 

strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her 

earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a 

weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as 

life ! 



O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That Nature yet remembers 
Wliat was so fugitive ! 



The thought of our past years in me 

doth breed 
Perpetual benedictions : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be 

blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at 

rest, 
With new-fledged hope still flutter- 
ing in his breast: — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate question- 
ings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before Avhich our 

mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing sur- 
l^rised : 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Wliich, be they what they may. 
Are yet the fountain light of all our 

day. 
Are yet a master light of all our see- 
ing; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have 
power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in 

the being 
Of the eternal silence : truths that 
wake. 
To perish never; 
Wliich neither listlessness, nor mad 
endeavor, 
Nor man nor boy. 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be. 
Our souls have sight of that im- 
mortal sea *' 
"Wliich brought us hither. 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the 

shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling 
evermoi'e. 



Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a 
joyous song ! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 



176 



PARNASSUS. 



We in thouglit will join your 
throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to- 
day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 
Wliat though the radiance which 

was once so hright 
Be now forever taken from my 
sight, 
Though nothing can bring back 
the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in 
the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains be- 
hind, 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been, must ever 

be; 
In the soothing thoughts that 

spring 
Out of human suffering ; 
In the faith that looks through 
death, 
In years that bring the philosophic 
mind. 



And O ye fountains, meadows, 

hills, and groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our 

loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your 

might ; 
I only have relinquished one delight, 
To live beneath your more habitual 

sway. 
I love the brooks which down their 

channels fret, 
Even more than when I tripped 

lightly as they : 
The innocent brightness of a new- 
born day 
Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the 

setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an 

eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's 

mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other 

palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which 

we live ; 
Thanks to its tendei-ness, its joys, 

and fears, 



To me the meanest flower that blows 

can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep 

for tears. 

WORDSWOKTH. 



LOVE AND HUMILITY. 

Far have I clambered in my mind, 
But nought so great as love I find : 
Deep-searching wit, mount-moving 

might. 
Are nought compared to that good 

sprite. 
Life of delight, and soul of bliss ! 
Sure source of lasting happiness ! 
Higher than heaven ! lower than hell ! 
What is thy tent? Where mayst 

thou dwell? 

My mansion hight humility, 
Heaven's vastest capability. 
The further it doth downward bend, 
The higher up it doth ascend ; 
If it go down to utmost nought. 
It shall return with what it sought. 

Could I demolish with mine eye 
Strong towers; stop the fleet stars in 

sky, 
Bring down to earth the pale-faced 

moon, 
Or turn black midnight to bright 

noon ; 
Though all things were put in my 

hand, — 
As parched, as dry, as Libyan sand 
Would be my life, if Charity 
Were wanting. But Humility 
Is more than my poor soul durst crave, 
That lies entombed in lowiy grave. 
But if 'twere lawful up to send 
My voice to heaven, this should it 

rend, 
Lord, thrust me deeper hito dust. 
That thou mayst raise me with the 

just. 

Henry More. 



MY LEGACY. 

They told me I was heir : I turned 

in haste, 
And ran to seek my treasure, 
And wondered as, I ran, how it was 

placed, — 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



177 



If I should find a measure 
Of gold, or if the titles of fair lands 
And houses would be laid within my 
hands. 

I journeyed many roads ; I knocked 

at gates ; 
I spoke to each wayfarer 
I met, and said, " A heritage awaits 
Me. Art not thou the bearer 
Of news ? some message sent to me 

whereby 
I learn which way my new posses- 
sions lie? " 

Some asked me in ; nought lay be- 
yond their door ; 

Some smiled, and would not tarry. 

But said that men were just behind 
who bore 

More gold than I could cany ; 

And so the morn, the noon, the day, 
were spent, 

While empty handed up and down I 
went. 

At last one cried, whose face I could 

not see, 
As through the mists he hasted ; 
"Poor child, what evil ones have 

hindered thee, 
Till this whole day is wasted ? 
Hath no man told thee that thou art 

joint heir 
With one named Christ, who waits 

the goods to share ? " 

The one named Christ I sought for 
many days, 

In many places vainly ; 

I heard men name his name in many 
ways ; 

I saw his temples plainly; 

But they who named him most gave 
me no sign 

To find him by, or prove the heir- 
ship mine. 

And when at last I stood before his 

face, 
I knew him by no token 
Save subtle air of joy which filled 

the place ; 
Our greeting was not spoken ; 
In solemn silence I received my 

share, 
Kneeling before my brother and 

"joint heir." 

12 



My share ! No deed of house or 

spreading lands. 
As I had dreamed ; no measure 
Heaped up with gold; my elder 

brother's hands 
Had never held such treasure. 
Foxes have holes, and birds in nests 

are fed : 
My brother had not where to lay his 

head. 

My share! The right like him to 

know all pain 
Which hearts are made for knowing ; 
The right to find in loss the surest 

gain; 
To reap my joy from sowing 
In bitter tears ; the right with him 

to keep 
A watch by day and night with all 

who weep. 

My share ! To-day men call it grief 

and death ; 
I see the joy and life to-morrow ; 
I thank my Father with my every 

breath, 
For this sweet legacy of sorrow ; 
And through my tears I call to each 

"joint heir 
With Christ, make haste to ask him 

for thy share." 

H. H. 



DIVINE LOVE. 

Thou hidden love of God! whose 
height. 
Whose depth unfathomed, no man 
knows — 
I see from far thy beauteous light, 

Inly I sigh for thy repose. 
My heart is pained ; nor can it be 
At rest till it finds rest in Thee. 

Thy secret voice invites me still 
The sweetness of Thy yoke to prove ; 

And fain I would ; but though my will 
Seem fixed, yet wide my passions 
rove ; 

Yet hindrances strew all the way — 

I aim at Thee, yet from Thee stray. 

'Tis mercy all, that Thou hast 
brought 
My mind to seek her peace in 
Thee! 



178 



PARNASSUS. 



Yet while I seek, but find Thee not, 
No peace my wandering soul shall 

see. 
O when shall all my wanderings 

end, 
And all my steps to Theeward tend ? 

Is there a thing beneath the sun 
That strives with Thee my heart 
to share ? 
Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone — 

The Lord of every motion there ! 
Then shall my heart from earth be 

free, 
Wlien it hath found repose in Thee. 
Gerhard Tersteegen: 
Trans, by John Wesley. 



MOKAVIAN HYMN. 

O draw me. Father, after thee, 
So shall I run and never tire : 
With gracious words still comfort 

me; 
Be thou my hope, my sole desire ; 
Free me from every weight; nor 

fear 
Nor sin can come, if thou art here. 

From all eternity, with love 
Unchangeable thou hast me viewed ; 
Ere knew this beating heart to 

move. 
Thy tender mercies me pursued ; 
Ever with me may they abide, 
And close me in on every side. 

In suffering, be thy love my peace ; 
In weakness, be thy love my power ; 
And when the storms of life shall 

cease. 
My God ! in that transcendent hour. 
In death as life be thou my guide, 
And bear me through death's 

whelming tide. 

John Wesley. 



PSALM XCIII. 

Clothed with state, and girt with 
might. 

Monarch-like Jehovah reigns, 
He "who earth's foundation pight* — 

Pight at first, and yet sustains ; 



He whose stable throne disdains 
Motion's shock and age's flight; 

He who endless one remains 
One, the same, in changeless plight. 

Rivers, — yea though rivers roar, 

Roaring though sea-billows rise, 
Vex the deep, and break the 
shore, — 

Stronger art thou. Lord of skies ! 

Firm and true thy promise lies 
Now and still as heretofore : 

Holy worship never dies 
In thy house where we adore. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



PSALM CXXXIX. 

O Lord in me there lieth nought 
But to thy search revealed lies ; 
For when I sit 
Thou markest it ; 
Nor less thou notest when I rise : 
Yea, closest closet of my thought 
Hath open windows to thine eyes. 

Thou walkest with me when I walk ; 
When to my bed for rest I go, 
I find thee there, 
And everywhere ; 
Not youngest thought in me doth 
grow. 
No, not one word I cast to talk 
But, yet unuttered, thou dost 
know. 

If forth I march, thou goest before ; 
If back I turn, thou com'st behind ; 
So forth nor back 
Thy guard I lack ; 
Nay, on me too thy hand I find. 
Well I thy wisdom may adore, 
But never reach with earthly 
mind. 

To shun thy notice, leave thine eye, 
O whither might I take my way ? 
To starry sphere ? 
Thy throne is there : 
To dead men's undelightsonie 
stay ? 
There is thy walk, and there to lie 
Unknown, in vain should I assay. 

O sun, whom light nor flight can 
match ! 
Suppose thy lightful flightful wings 



CONTEMPLATIVE. —MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



17b 



TIkui Iciul to ine, 
Aiul I could flee 
As far as thee the evening brings : 
Even led to west he would me catch. 
Nor should I lurk with western 
things. 

Do thou thy best, O secret night ! 
In sable veil to cover me: 
Thy sable veil 
Shall vainly fail : 
With day unmasked my night 
shall be, 
For night is day, and darkness light, 
O Father of all lights, to thee. 

Sir "Philip Sidney. 



SATAN. 

Below the bottom of the great Abyss, 
There where one centre reconciles 

all things. 
The world's profound heart pants; 

there placed is 
Mischief's old Master! close about 

him clings 
A curled knot of embracing snakes, 

that kiss 
His correspondent cheeks: these 

loathsome strings 
Hold the perverse prince iu eternal 

ties, 
Fast bound since first he forfeited 

the skies. 

Heaven's golden-wingfed herald late 

he saw 
To a poor Galilean virgin sent ; 
How long the bright youth bowed, 

and with what awe 
Immortal flowers to her fair hand 

present : 
He saw the old Hebrew's womb 

neglect the law 
Of age and barrenness ; and her Babe 

prevent 
His birth by his devotion, who be- 
gan 
Betimes to be a saint before a 

man ! 

Yet, on the other side, fain would 

he start 
Above his fears, and think it cannot 

be: 
He studies Scripture, strives to sound 

the heart 



And feel the pulse of every prophecy. 
He knows, but knows not how, or 

by what art 
The heaven-expecting ages hope to 
see 
A mighty Babe, whose pure, un- 
spotted birth 
From a chaste virgin womb should 
bless the earth ! 

But these vast mysteries his senses 

smother, 
And reason, — for what's faith to 

him ! — devour. 
How she that is a maid should prove 

a mother. 
Yet \ieep inviolate her virgin flower : 
How God's eternal Son should be 

man's brother, 
Poseth his proudest intellectual 

power ; 
How a pure spirit should incar- 
nate be, 
And life itself wear death's frail 

livery. 

That the great angel-blinding light 

should shrink 
His blaze, to shine in a poor shep- 
herd's eye; 
That the vmmeasured God so low 

should sink 
As iH'isoner in a few poor rags to lie ; 
That from his mother's breast He 

milk should drink. 
Who feeds with nectar Heaven's fair 

family; 
That a vile manger his low bed 

should prove 
Wlio in a throne of stars thunders 

above. 

That He whom the sun serves, should 

faintly peep 
Through clouds of infant flesh : that 

He the old 
Eternal Word would be a child, and 

weep ; 
That He who made the fire should 

feel the cold ; 
That Heaven's high Majesty his 

court should keep 
In a clay-cottage, by each blast con- 
trolled : 
That Glory's self should serve our 

griefs and fears :. 
And free Eternity submit to years. 
Richard Crashaw. 



180 



PARNASSUS. 



NARAYENA: SPIRIT OF GOD. 

Blue crystal vault and elemental 

fires 
That in the aerial fluid blaze and 

breathe ! 
Thou tossing sea, whose snaky 

branches wreath 
This i^ensile orb with intertwisted 

gyves ; — 
Mountains whose lofty radiant spires 
Presumptuous rear their summits 

to the skies ; 
Smooth meads and lawns that glow 

with vergant dyes 
Of dew-bespangled leaves and blos- 
soms bright! 
Hence ! vanish from my sight : 
Delusive pictures ! Unsubstantial 

shows ! 
My soul absorbed, one only Being 

knows ; 
Of all perceptions one abundant 

source ; 
Wlience every object every moment 

flows: 
Suns hence derive their force ; 
Hence planets learn their course ; 
But suns and fading worlds I view 

no more : 
God only I perceive ; God only I adore. 
Sir William Jones : Translation. 



PENITENCE. 

Great God! 

Greater than greatest! better than 
the best! 

Kinder than kindest ! with soft pity's 
eye 

Look down — 

On a poor breathing particle in 
dust! 

Or, lower, — an immortal in his 
crimes. 

His crimes forgive, forgive his vir- 
tues too ! 

Those smaller faults, half converts 
to the right. 

Young. 

AN ODE. 

The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining 
frame. 



Their great Original proclaim. 
The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
Does his Creator's power display; 
And publishes to every land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The moon takes up the wondrous 

tale, 
And nightly, to the listening earth. 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her 

burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to 

pole. 

Wliat though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round this dark, terrestrial 

ball ? 
^Vhat though nor real voice nor 

sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found? 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice. 
Forever singing as they shine, 
" The hand that made us is divine ! " 
Addison. 



TWO WENT UP INTO THE 
TEMPLE TO PRAY. 

Two went to pray ? Oh ! rather say 
One went to brag, the other to pray. 

One stands up close, and treads or 

high. 
Where the other dares not lend hii 

eye. 

One nearer to God's altar trod ; 
The other to the altar's God. 

Richard Crashaw. 



A HYMN TO CHRIST, 

AT THE author' S LAST GOING INTO 
GERMANY. 

In what torn ship soever I embark, 
That ship shall be my emblem of 

thy ark ; 
Wliat sea soever swallow me, that 

flood 
§hall be to me an emblem of thy 

blood. 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



181 



Though thou with clouds of anger 
do disguise 

Thy face, yet througli that mask I 
know those eyes, 

■Wnuch, though they turn away some- 
times, — 

They never will despise. 

I sacrifice this island unto thee. 
And all whom I love here, and who 

love me : 
Wiien I have put this flood 'twixt 

them and me, 
Put thou thy blood betwixt my sins 

and thee. 
As the tree's sap doth seek the root 

below 
In winter, in my winter now I go 
Wliere none but tliee, the eternal root 
Of true love, I may know. 

Nor thou, nor thy religion, dost con- 
trol 

The amorousness of an harmonious 
soul ; 

But thou wouldst have that love 
thyself : as thou 

Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous 
now. 

Thou lov'st not till from loving 
more thou free 

My soul : who ever gives, takes lib- 
erty; 

Oh! if thou car' St not whom I love, 

Alas, thou lov'st not me ! 

Seal, then, this bill of my divorce to 

all 
On whom those fainter beams of 

love did fall ; 
Marry those loves, which in youth 

scattered be 
On face, wit, hopes (false mistresses), 

to thee. 
Churches are best for prayer that 

have least light ; 
To see God only, I go out of sight; 
And to 'scape stormy days, I choose 
An everlasting night. 

Donne. 



THE ELIXIK. 

Teach me, my God and King, 
In all things thee to see ; 

And, what I do in any thing, 
To do it as for thee : 



Not rudely, as a beast. 

To run into an action ; 
But still to make thee prepossessed. 

And give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on glass 

On it may stay his eye ; 
Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass, 

And then the heaven espy. 

All may of thee partake : 

Nothing can be so mean. 
Which with this tincture, for thy 
sake, 

Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant, with this clause. 

Makes drudgery divine : 
Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, 

Makes that, and the action, fine. 

This is the famous stone 

That turneth all to gold ; 
For that which God doth touch and 
own 
Cannot for less be told. 

Herbert. 



SING UNTO THE LORD. 

PSAX,M XCVI. 

Sing, and let your song be new, 
Unto him that never endethi 

Sing all earth, and all in you. 

Sing to God, and bless his name. 
Of the help, the health he sendeth, 

Day by day new ditties frame. 

Make each country know his worth: 
Of his acts the wondered story 

Paint unto each people forth. 

For Jehovah great alone. 
All the gods for awe and glory. 

Far above doth hold his throne, 

For but idols, what are they 
Whom besides mad earth adoreth f 

He the skies in frame did lay ; 

Grace and honor are his guides ; 
Majesty his temple storeth ; 

Might in guard about him bides. 

Kindreds come ! Jehovah give, — 

O give Jehovah all together, 
Force and fame whereso you live. 
Give his name the glory fit ; 



182 



PARNASSUS. 



Take your offerings, get you 
thither, 
Where he doth enshrined sit. 

Go, adore him in tlie place 

Wliere liis pomp is most displayed. 
Earth, O go with quaking pace. 
Go proclaim Jehovah king : 

Stayless world shall now be stayed ; 
Righteous doom his rule shall bring. 

Starry roof and earthy floor. 
Sea and all thy wideness yieldeth ; 

Now rejoice, and leap, and roar. 

Leafy infants of the wood, 
Fields, and all that on you feed- 
eth, 

Dance, O dance, at such a good ! 

For Jehovah cometh, lo ! 

Lo, to reign Jehovah cometh ! 
Under whom you all shall go. 
He the world shall rightly guide ; 

Truly, as a king becometh. 
For the people's weal provide. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



PSALM XVIII. 

The Lord descended from above. 
And bowed the heavens high ; 

And underneath his feet he cast 
The darkness of the sky. 

On Cherubim and Seraphim 

Full royally he rode ; 
And on the wings of mighty winds 

Came flying all abroad. 

He sat serene upon the floods. 

Their fury to restrain ; 
And he as sovereign Lord and King 

Forevermore shall reign. 

Sternhold. 



DEPENDENCE. 

To keep the lamp alive, 
With oil we fill the bowl : 

'Tis water makes the willow thrive, 
And grace that feeds the soul. 

The Lord's unsparing hand 
Supplies the living stream : 

It is not at our own command, 
But still derived from him. 



Man's wisdom is to seek 
His strength in God alone ; 

And even an angel would be weak, 
"Who trusted in his own. 

Eetreat beneath his wings. 
And in his grace confide: 

This more exalts the King of kings 
Than all your works beside. 

In Jesus is our store ; 

Grace issues from his throne : 
Wlioever says, "I want no more," 

Confesses he has none. 

COWPER. 



PROVIDENCE. 

God moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform : 
He plants his footsteps in the sea, 

Aiid rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill, 
He treasures up his bright designs, 

And works his sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take: 
The clouds ye so much dread 

Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
But trust him for his grace : 

Behind a frowning providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast. 

Unfolding every hour : 
The bud may have a bitter taste ; 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err, 
And scan his works in vain : 

God is his own interpreter ; 
And he will make it plain. 

COWPER. 



PROVIDENCE. 



O 



SACRED Providence, who from 
end to end 
Strongly and sweetly movest! shall 
I write, 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — INIOKAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



183 



A.nd not of thee, through whom my 

fingers bend 
To hold my quill? shall they not do 

thee right ? 

Wherefore, most sacred Spirit, I 

here present. 
For me and all my fellows, praise to 

thee : 
And just it is that I should pay the 

rent, 
Because the benefit accrues to me. 

Tempests are calm to thee: they 

know thy hand. 
And hold it fast, as children do 

their fathers. 
Which cry and follow. Thou hast 

made poore sand 
Check the proud sea, even when it 

swells and gathers. 

How finely dost thou times and sea- 
sons spin, 

And make a twist checkered with 
night and day ! 

"Which as it lengthens, windes and 
windes us in, 

As bowls go on, but turning all the 
way. 

Bees work for man; and yet they 

never bruise 
Their master's flower, but leave it, 

having done. 
As fair as ever, and as fit to use : 
So both the flower doth stay, and 

honey run. 

Wlio liath the virtue to expresse the 
rare 

And curious virtues both of herbs 
and stones ? 

Is there an herb for that? O that 
thy care 

Would show a root that gives ex- 
pressions ! 

The sea which seems to stop the 

traveller. 
Is by a ship the speedier passage 

made: 
The windes, who think they rule the 

mariner, 
A.re ruled by him, and taught to 

serve his trade. 



Rain, do not hurt my flowers, but 

gently spend 
Your honey droits ; presse not to smell 

them here : 
When they are ripe, their odor will 

ascend. 
And at your lodging with their 

thanks appeare. 

Sometimes thou dost divide thy gifts 

to man ; 
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut 

alone 
Is clothing, meat, and trencher, 

drink and can. 
Boat, cable, sail and needle, all in 

one. 

Each thing that is, although in use 

and name 
It go for one, hath many ways in 

store 
To honor thee ; and so each hymn 

thy fame 
ExtoUeth many ways, yet this one 

more. 

Hekbert. 



PRAISE TO GOD. 

Praise to God, immortal praise, 
For the love that crowns our days : 
Bounteous source of every joy. 
Let thy praise our tongues employ ; 

For the blessings of the field. 
For the stores the gardens yield, 
For the vine's exalted jviice. 
For the generous olive's use; 

Flocks that whiten all the plain, 
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain ; 
Clouds that drop their fattening 

dews. 
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse ; 

All that Spring with bounteous 

hand 
Scatters o'er the smiling land: 
All that liberal Autumn pours 
From her rich o'erflowing stores: 

These to thee, my God, we owe ; 
Source whence all our blessings 

flow; 
And for these my soul shall raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise. 



184 



PARNASSUS. 



Yet should rising whirlwinds tear 
From its stem the ripening ear ; 
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot 
Drop her green untimely fruit ; 

Should the vine put forth no more, 
Nor the olive yield her store ; 
Though the sickening flocks should 

^fall, 
And the herds desert the stall ; 

Should thine altered hand restrain 
The early and the latter rain, 
Blast each opening bud of joy. 
And the rising year destroy : 

Yet to thee my soul should raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise ; 
And, when every blessing's flown. 
Love thee — for thyself alone. 

Bakbauld. 



AFFLICTION. 

When first Thou didst entice to Thee 
my heart, 
I thought the service brave ; 
So many joys I writ down for my 
part ! 
Besides what I might have 
Out of my stock of natural delights, 
Augmented with Thy gracious bene- 
fits. 

I lookfed on Thy furniture so fine. 

And made it fine to me. 
Thy glorious household stuff did me 
intwine, 
And 'tice me unto Thee. 
Such stars I counted mine: both 

heaven and earth 
Paid me my wages in a woi'ld of mirth. 

What pleasure could I want, whose 

King I sei-ved ? 
Where joys my fellows were ? 
Thus argued into hopes, my thoughts 

reserved 
No place for grief or fear : 
Therefore my sudden soul caught at 

the place, 
And made her youth and fierceness 

seek Thy face. 

At first Thou gav'st me milk and 
sweetnesses ; 
I had my wish and way : 



My days were strewed with flowers 

and happiness : 
There was no month but May : 
But with my years sorrow did twist 

and grow, 
And made a party unawares for woe. 

Whereas my birth and spirit rather 
took 
The way that takes the town ; 
Thou didst betray me to a lingering 
book, 
And wrap me in a gown. 
I was entangled in a world of strife, 
Before I had the power to change my 
life. 

Yet lest perchance I should too hap- 
py be 
In my unhappiness. 

Turning my purge to food. Thou 
throwest me 
Into more sicknesses. 

Thus does Thy power cross-bias me, 
not making 

Thine own gift good, yet me from 
my ways taking. 

Now I am here ; what Thou wilt do 
with me. 
None of my books will show: 
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree ; 

For sure then I should grow 
To fruit, or shade ; at least some bird 

would trust 
Her household to me, and I should 
be just. 

Yet though Thou troublest me, I 
must be meek ; 
In weakness must be stout. 
Well, I will change the service, and 
go seek 
Some other master out. 
Ah, my dear God ! though I am clean 

forgot, 
Let me not love Thee, if I love Thee 
not. 

Hebbekt. 



GRATEFULNESS. 

Thou that hast given so much to me, 
Give one thing more, — a grateful 

heart. 
See how Thy beggar works on Thee 
By art: 



CONTEMPLATl VE. — INIORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



185 



Ho makes Thy gifts occasion more, 
Aiul says — If he in this be crost, 
All Thou hast given him heretofore 
Is lost. 

But Thou didst reckon, when at first 
Thy word our hearts and hands did 

crave, 
Wliat it would come to at the worst 
To save. 

Perpetual knockings at Thy door, 
Tears sullying Thy transparent 

rooms. 
Gift upon gift, much would have 

more, 

And comes. 

This notwithstanding, thou went'st 

on, 
And didst allow us all our noise ; 
Nay, Thou hast made a sigh and 

groan. 

Thy joys. 

Not that Thou hast not still above 
Much better tunes than groans can 

make. 
But that these country airs Thy love 
Did take. 

Wherefore I cry, and cry again ; 
And in no quiet canst Thou be. 
Till I a thankful heart obtain 

Of Thee. 

Not thankful when it pleaseth me, — 
As if Thy blessings had spare days, — 
But such a heart, whose pulse may 
be 

Thy praise. 
Herbert, 



MATINS. 

When with the virgin morning 
thou dost rise. 

Crossing thyself, come thus to sacri- 
fice; 

First wash thy lieart in innocence, 
then bring 

Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure 
every thing. 

Next to the altar humbly kneel, and 
thence 

Give up thy soul in clouds of frank- 
incense. 



Thy golden censers filled with odors 

sweet 
Shall make thy actions with their 

ends to meet. 

Hekrick. 



BEFORE SLEEP. 

The night is come like to the 

day, — 
Depart not thou, great God, away. 
Let not my sins, black as the night. 
Eclipse tlie lustre of thy light. 
Keep still in my horizon ; for to me 
The sun makes not the day, but 

thee. 
Thou, whose nature cannot sleep, 
On my temples sentry keep ; 
Guard me 'gainst those watchful 

foes 
Whose eyes are open while mine 

close. 
Let no dreams my head infest 
*But such as Jacob's temples blest. 
Wliile I do I'est, my soul advance, 
Make my sleep a holy trance. 
That I may, my rest being wrought, 
Awake into some holy thought. 
And with as active vigor run 
My course, as doth tlie nimble sun, 
Sleep is a death ; O make me try 
By sleeping, what it is to die : 
And as gently lay my head 
On my grave, as now my bed. 
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 
Awake again at least with thee ; 
And thus assured, behold I lie 
Secure, or to awake or die. 
These are my drowsy days ; in vain 
I do now wake to sleep again ; — 
O come that hour, when I shall never 
Sleep again, but wake forever. 

Sir Thomas Browne. 



HYMN. 

Loud, when I quit this earthly stage. 
Where shall I fly but to thy breast? 
For I have sought no other home. 
For I have learned no other rest. 

I cannot live contented here. 
Without some glimpses of thy face ; 
And heaven without thy presence 

there 
Would be a dark and tiresome place. 



186 



PARNASSUS. 



When earthly cares engross the day, 
And hold my thoughts aside from 

thee, 
The shining hours of cheerful light 
Are long and tedious years to me. 

And if no evening visit's paid 
Between my Saviour and my soul, 
How dull the night! how sad the 

shade ! 
How mournfully the minutes roll ! 

My God ! and can a humble child 
That loves thee with a flame so high, 
Be ever from thy face exiled. 
Without the pity of thy eye ? 

Impossible I for thine own hands 
Have tied my heart so fast to thee ; 
And in thy book the promise stands 
That where thou art thy fi'iends 
must be. 

Watts. 



HYMN TO GOD, MY GOD, IN 
MY SICKNESS. 

Since I am coming to that holy room, 
Where with the choir of saints for- 
evermore 
I shall be made thy music, as I come 
I tune the instrument here at the 
door, 
And what I must do then, think here 
before. 

We think that Paradise and Calvary, 
Christ's cross and Adam's tree, 
stood in one place : 
Look, Lord, and find both Adams 
met in me ; 
As the first Adam's sweat sur- 
rounds my face. 
May the last Adam's blood my soul 
embrace. 

So, in his purple wrapped, receive 
me, Lord; 
By these his thorns give me his 
other crown ; 
And as to others' souls I preached 
thy word, 
Be this my text, my sermon to 
mine own : 
Therefore, that he may raise, the 
Lord throws down. 

Donne. 



LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 

In the hour of my distress, 
When temptations me oppress, 
And when I my sins confess. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wlien I lie within my bed. 
Sick at heart, and sick in head. 
And with doubts discomforted, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the house doth sigh and 

weep. 
And the world is drowned in sleep, 
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the artless doctor sees 
No one hope, but of his fees. 
And his skill runs on the lees, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wlien his potion and his pill, 
, Has or none or little skill, 
Meet for nothing, but to kill, — 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the passing bell doth toll, 
And the Furies, in a shoal. 
Come to fright a parting soul. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wlien the tapers now burn blue, 
And the comforters are few, 
And that number more than true, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wlien the priest his last hath prayed, 
And I nod to what is said. 
Because my speech is now decayed. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wlien, God knows, I'm tost about 
Either with despair or doubt, 
Yet before the glass be out. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the Tempter me pursu'th 
With the sins of all my youth, 
And half damns me with untruth, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wlien the flames and hellish cries 
Fright mine ears, and fright mine 

eyes. 
And all terrors me surprise, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL — RELIGIOUS. 



187 



When the judgment is revealed, 
And that opened which was sealed ; 
When to Thee I have appealed, 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Herrick. 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



It was the winter wild, 
Wliile the heaven-born child 
All meanly wrapt in the rude man- 
ger lies ; 
Nature in awe to him 
Had doff'd her gaudy trim, 
With her great Master so to sym- 
pathize : 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her lusty 
paramour. 



Only with speeches fair 

She wooes the gentle air 
To hide her guilty front with inno- 
cent snow, 

And on her naked shame. 

Pollute with sinful blame, 
The saintly veil of maiden white 
to throw ; 

Confounded that her Maker's eyes 

Should look so near upon h.er foul 
deformities. 



But He, her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; 
She, crowned Avith olive green, 

came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere 
His ready harbinger, 
With turtle wing the amorous clouds 

dividing; 
And waving wide her myrtle wand. 
She strikes a universal peace through 

sea and land. 



No war, or battle's sound, 
Was heard the world around : 
The idle spear and shield 
high uphung. 
The hooked chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood, 



The trumpet spake not to the 
arm^d throng. 
And kings sat still with awful eye. 
As if they surely knew their sovereign 
Lord was by. 



But peaceful was the night 
Wherein the Prince of light 

His reign of peace upon the earth 

began : 
The winds, with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kist, 
Wliispering new joys to the mild 

ocean. 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on 

the charmed wave. 



The stars with deep amaze 
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. 
Bending one way their precious 

influence, 
And will not take their flight. 
For all the morning light. 

Or Lucifer, that often warned them 

thence ; 
But in their glimmering orbs did 

glow. 
Until their Lord himself bespake, 

and bade them go. 

VII. 

And though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room, 

The sun himself withheld his 

wonted speed, 
And hid his head for shame, 
As his inferior flame 

The new enlightened world no 

more should need ; 
He saw a greater sun appear 
Than his bright throne or burning 

axletree could bear. 



The shepherds on the lawn, 
Or e'er the point of dawn, 
Sat simply chatting in a rustic 
row; 
Full little thought they then 
That the mighty Pan 
Was kindly come to live with them 
below ; 



188 



PARNASSUS. 



Perhaps their loves, or else their 

sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts 

so busy keep. 



When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet. 
As never was by mortal finger 
strook, 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 
As all their souls in blissful rap- 
ture took : 
The air, such pleasure loath to lose. 
With thousand echoes still prolongs 
each heavenly close. 



Nature, that heard such sound, 
Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region 

thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was done. 
And that her reign had here its 

last fulfilling; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all heaven and earth in 

happier union. 



At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light, 
That with long beams the shame- 
faced night arrayed ; 
The helmed Cherubim, 
And sworded Seraphim, 
Are seen in glittering ranks with 
wings displayed. 
Harping in loud and solemn quire, 
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven'.-) 
new-born Heir. 



Such music (as 'tis said) 

Before was never made. 
But when of old the sons of morn- 
ing sung, 

While the Creator great 

His constellations set, 
And the well-balanced world on 
hinges hung, 

And cast the dark foundations deep, 

And bid the weltering waves their 
oozy channel keep. 



Ring out, ye crystal spheres, 
Once bless our human ears, 
If ye have power to touch our 

senses so ; 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time, 
And let the base of heaven's deep 

organ blow ; 
And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to the angelic 

symphony. 



For if such holy song 
In wrap our fancy long, 
Time will run back, and fetch the 

age of gold ; 
And speckled Vanity 
Will sicken soon and die. 
And leprous Sin will melt from 

earthly mould ; 
And Hell itself will pass away. 
And leave her dolorous mansions to 

the peering day. 



Tea, Truth and Justice then 
Will down return to men, 
Orbed in a rainbow; and, like 

glories wearing, 
Mercy will sit between, 
Throned in celestial sheen, 
With radiant feet the tissued 

clouds down steering : 
And heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high 

palace hall. 



But wisest Fate says, no, 
This must not yet be so, 

The babe yet lies in smiling in- 
fancy, 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss ; 

So both himself and us to glorify; 
Yet first to those ychained in sleep, 
The wakeful trump of doom must 
thunder through the deep, 



With such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang, 
While the red fire, and smoulder- 
ing clouds outbrake : 



CONTEMPLATIVE. — MORAL. — RELIGIOUS. 



189 



Tlift acted earth aghast, 
With terror of that blast, * 

Sliall from the surface to the cen- 
tre shake ; 
When at the world's last session, 
The dreadful Judge in middle air 
shall spread his throne. 



And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is, 
But now begins; for, from this 

happy day. 
The old Dragon vmder ground 
In straiter limits bound. 
Not half so far casts his usurped 

sway, 
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail. 
Swinges the scaly horror of his 

folded tail. 



The oracles are dumb ; 
No voice or hideovis hum 

Runs through the archfed roof in 

words deceiving. 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine. 
With hollow shriek the steep of 

Delphos leaving. 
No nightly trance or breathfed spell 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the 

prophetic cell, 

XX. 

The lonely mountains o'er. 
And the resounding shore, 
A voice of weei)ing heard and loud 

lament ; 
From haunted spring, and dale 
Edged with poplar pale. 

The parting Genius is with sighing 

sent; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn. 
The Nymphs in twilight shade of 

tangled thickets mourn. 



In consecrated earth. 
And on the holy hearth. 
The Lars and Lemures moan with 
midnight plaint; 
In urns and altars round, 
A. drear and dying sound 
Affrights the Flamens at their ser- 
vice quaint; 



And the chill marble seems to sweat. 
While each peculiar Power foregoes 
his wonted seat. 



Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice-battered god of 

Palestine ; 
And mooned Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's queen and mother both. 
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy 

shine ; 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his 

horn ; 
In vain the Tyrian maids their 

wounded Thammuz mourn. 



And sullen Moloch fled. 
Hath left in shadows dread 
His burning idol all of blackest 
hue; 
In vain with cymbals' ring 
They call the grisly king, 

In dismal dance about the furnace 
blue : 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, 
haste. 



Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove or green, 
Trampling the unshowered grass 

with lowings loud: 
Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest ; 
Nought but profoundest hell can 

be his shroud ; 
In vain with timbrelled anthems dark 
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his 

worshipped ark. 



He feels from Judah's land 
The dreaded Infant's hand; 
The rays of Bethlehem blind his 

dusky eyn ; 
Nor all the gods beside. 
Longer dare abide ; 
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky 

twine : 
Our babe, to show his Godhead true, 
Can in his swaddling bands control 

the damned crew. 



190 



PARNASSUS. 



So when the sun in bed, 
Curtained with cloudy red, 
Pillows his chin upon an orient 

wave, 
The floclcing shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail, 
Each fettered ghost slips to his 

several grave : 
And the yellow-skirted Fayes 
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving 

their moon-loved maze. 

XXVII. 

But see the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest ; 
Time is our tedious song should 
here have ending ; 
Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
Hath fixed her polished car. 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid 
lamp attending ; 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order 
serviceable. 

Milton. 



THE SHEPHEEDS. 

O THAN the fairest day, thrice fairer 

night ! 
Night to best days, in which a sun 

doth rise 
Of which that Golden eye which 

clears the skies 
Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow light ! 
And blessed ye, in silly pastors' sight, 
Wild creatures in whose warm crib 

now lies 
That heaven-sent youngling, holy 

maid-born wight, 
'Midst, end, beginning of our 

prophecies ! 
Blest cottage that hath flowers in 

winter spread ! 
Though withered, — blessed grass, 

that hath the grace 
To deck and be a carpet to that place ! 
Thus sang unto the sounds of oaten 

reed, 
Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed 

on knees ; 
A.nd springs ran nectar, honey 

dropped from trees. 

Deummond. 



THE ANGELS. 



EuN, shepherds, run where Bethle- 
hem blest appears. 
We bring the best of news ; be not 

dismayed : 
A Saviour there is born more old 

than years. 
Amidst heaven's rolling height this 

earth who stayed. 
In a poor cottage inned, a virgin 

maid 
A weakling did him bear, who all 

upbears ; 
There is he poorly swaddled, in 

manger laid, 
To whom too narrow swaddlings are 

our spheres : 
Eun, shepherds, run, and solemnize 

his birth. 
This is that night— no, day, grown 

great with bliss, 
In which the power of Satan broken 

is: 
In heaven be glory, peace unto the 

earth ! 
Thus singing, through the air the 

angels swarm. 
And cope of stars re-echoed the 

same. 

Dkummond. 



THE STAE SONG. 

Tell us, thou clear and heavenly 

tongue, 
Wliere is the Babe but lately sprung ? 
Lies he the lily-banks among? 

Or say, if this new Birth of ours 
Sleeps, laid within some ark of 

flowers, 
Spangled with dew-light ; thou canst 

clear 
All doubts, and manifest the where. 

Declare to us, bright star, if we 

shall seek 
Him in the morning's blushing 

cheek, 
Or search the beds of spices through, 
To find him out? 

Star. — No, this ye need not do ; 
But only come and see Him rest, 
A princely babe, in's mother's breast. 
Hekrick. 



CONTEMPLATIVE. - MORAL. —RELIGIOUS. 



191 



NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP. 

Behold a silly, tender Babe, 

In freezing winter night, 
In homely manger trembling lies ; 

Alas ! a piteous sight. 

The inns are full ; no man will yield 

This little Pilgrim bed ; 
But forced he is with silly beasts 

In crib to shroud his head. 

Despise him not for lying there ; 

First what he is inquire : 
An Orient pearl is often found 

In depth of dirty mire. 

Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish, 
Nor beasts that by him feed ; 

Weigh not his mother's poor attire. 
Nor Joseph's simple weed. 

This stable is a Prince's court, 
The crib his chair of state ; 

The beasts are parcel of his pomp. 
The wooden dish his plate. 

The persons in that poor attire 

His royal liveries wear; 
The Prince himself is come from 
heaven : 

This pomp is praised there. 

With joy approach, O Christian 
wight ! 

Do homage to thy King ; 
And highly praise this humble pomp, 

"\Yliich he from heaven doth bring. 
.. Southwell. 



THE BURNING BABE. 

As I in hoary winter's night 
Stood shivering in the snow, 
Surprised I was by sudden heat 
Wliich made my heart to glow; 

And lifting up a fearful eye 
To view what fire was near, 
A pretty babe all burning bright, 
Did in the air appear; 

Wlio, scorched with excessive heat, 

Such floods of tears did shed, 

As though his floods should quench 

his flames ; 
Which with his tears were bred : 



Alas, quoth he, but newly bom. 

In fiery heats I fry. 

Yet none approach to warm their 

hearts 
Or feel the fire, but I. 

My faultless breast the furnace is ; 
The fuel wounding thorns ; 
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, 
The ashes shames and scorns. 

The fuel justice layeth on, 
And mercy blows the coals ; 
The metal in this furnace wrought 
Are men's defiled souls — 

For which, as now on fire I am, 
To work them to their good, 
So will I melt into a bath. 
To wash them in my blood. 

With this he vanished out of sight, 
And swiftly shrunk away, 
Ajid straight I called unto mind 
That it was Christmas Day. 

Southwell. 



THE CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

The minstrels played their Christ- 
mas tune 
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves ; 
While, smitten, by a lofty moon, 
The encircling laurels, thick with 

leaves. 
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen. 
That overpowered their natural 
green. 

Through hill and valley every breeze 
Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
Keen was the air, but could not 

freeze, 
Nor check, the music of the strings ; 
So stout and hardy were the band 
That scraped the chords with stren- 
uous hand ! 

And who but listened ? — till was 

paid 
Respect to every inmate's claim: 
The greeting given, the music 

played. 
In honor of each household name, 
D^ily pronounced with lusty call. 
And " Merry Christmas " wished to 

all! 



192 



PARNASSUS. 



How touching, when, at midnight, 

sweep 
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark. 
To hear, and shik again to sleep ! 
Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 
By blazing fire, the still suspense 
Of self-complacent innocence ; 

The mutual nod, — the grave dis- 
guise 
Of hearts with gladness brimming 

o'er; 
And some unbidden tears that rise 
For names once heard, and heard no 

more ; 
Tears brightened by the serenade 
For infant in the cradle laid. 

Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence, 
Where they survive, of wholesome 

laws; 
Remnants of love whose modest 

sense 
Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 
Hail, Usages of isristine mould, 
And ye that guard them, Mountains 

old! 

WORDSWOBTH. 



CHRISTMAS. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night — 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new — 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress for all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 



Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the 

times : 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes, 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and 
blood. 
The civic slander and the spite : 
Ring in the love of truth and 
right. 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease. 
Ring out the narrowing lust of 

gold; 
Ring out the thousand wars of 
old. 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the 
land, — 
Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Tennyson. 



EASTER. 

I GOT me flowers to strew Thy way ; 
I got me boughs off many a tree ; 
But thou wast up by break of day. 
And brought' St Thy sweets along 
with Thee. 

The sun arising in the east, — 
Though he give light, and the east 

perfume ; 
If they should offer to contest 
With Thy arising, they presume. 

Can there be any day but this. 

Though many suns to shine en- 
deavor ? 

We count three hundred, — but we 
miss: 

There is but one, and that one ever. 
Heebebt. 



I 



V. 

HEROIC. 

PATRIOTIC. — HISTORIC. — POLITICAL. 



" Pallas, — See yonder souls set far within the shade, 

Who in Elysian bowers the blessfed seats do keep, 
That for their living good now semi-gods are made, 

And went away from earth, as if but tamed with sleep. 
These we must join to wake ; for these are of the strain 
That Justice dare defend, and will the Age sustain." 

Ben Joijson: Golden Age Bestored. 



HEEOIO. 



ON" THE LATE MASSACKE IN 
PIEMONT. 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered 

saints, whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine moun- 
tains cold ; 
Even them who kept thy truth so 

pure of old. 
When all our fathers worshipped 

stocks and stones. 
Forget not : in thy book record their 

groans 
Who were thy sheep, and in their 

ancient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piemontese 

that rolled 
Mother with infant down the 

rocks. Their moans 
The vales I'edoubled to the hills, and 

they 
To Heaven. Their martyred blood 

and ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where 

still doth sway 
The triple tyrant; that from these 

may grow 
A hundred-fold, who, having 

learned thy way. 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
Milton. 



HEROISM. 

At the approach 
Of extreme peril, when a hollow 

image 
Is found a hollow image and no 

more, 



Then falls the power into the mighty 

hands 
Of Nature, of the spirit giant-born, 
Who listens only to himself, knows 

nothing 
Of stipulations, duties, reverences, 
And, like the emancipated force of 

fire, 
Unmastered scorches, ere it reaches 

them. 
Their fine-spun webs. 
Coleridge's Translation of " Wal- 

lenstein.^' 



CONSTANCY. 

Who is the honest man ? 
He that doth still and strongly good 

pursue ; 
To God, his neighbor, and himself, 
most true. 
Whom neither force nor fawning 
can 
Unpin, or wrench from giving all 
their due. 

Whose honesty is not 
So loose or easy, that a ruffling wind 
Can blow away, or glittering look it 
blind. 
Wlio rides his sure and even trot, 
While the world now rides by, now 
lags behind. 

Who, when great trials come. 
Nor seeks, nor shuns them, but 

doth calmly stay, 
Till he the thing and the example 
weigh. 

195 



196 



PARNASSUS. 



All being brought into a sum, 
What place or person calls for, he 
doth pay. 

Whom none can work or woo, 
To use in any thing a trick, or 

sleight ; 
For above all things he abhors de- 
ceit. 
His words and works, and fashion 
too, 
All of a piece ; and all are clear and 
straight. 

Wlio never melts or thaws 
At close temptations. When the 

day is done, 
His goodness sets not, but in dark 
can run. 
The sun to others writeth laws, 
And is their virtue : virtue is his sun. 

Who, when he is to treat 
With sick folks, women, those whom 

laassions sway, 
Allows for that, and keeps his con- 
stant way ; 
Whom others' faults do not de- 
feat; 
But, though men fail him, yet his 
part doth play. , 

Whom nothing can procure. 
When the wide world runs bias, 

from his will 
To writhe his limbs, and share, not 
mend, the ill. 
This is the marksman safe and 
sure ; 
Who still is right, and prays to be 
so still. 

Heebeet. 



EPISTLE TO 
PERSUADE 
WARS. 



A FRIEND, TO 
HIM TO THE 



Take along with thee 
Thy true friend's wishes, Colby, 

which shall be, 
That thine be just and honest, that 

thy deeds 
Not wound thy conscience, when 

thy body bleeds ; 
That thou dost all things more for 

truth than glory. 



And never but for doing wrong be 

sorry ; 
That, by commanding first thyself, 

thou mak'st 
Thy person fit for any charge thou 

tak'st; 
That Fortune never make thee to 

complain. 
But what she gives, thou dar'st give 

her again ! 
That, whatsoever face thy Fate puts 

on. 
Thou shrink or start not, but be 

always one : 
That thou think nothing great, but 

what is good ; 
And from that thought strive to be 

understood. 
These take, and now go seek thy 

peace in war : 
Who falls for love of God shall rise 

a star. 

Ben Jonson. 



THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

Who is the happy warrior ? Who is 
he 

That every man in arms should 
wish to be ? 

It is the generous spirit, who, when 
brought 

Among the tasks of I'cal life, hath 
wrought 

Upon the plan that pleased his 
childish thought : 

Whose high endeavors are an inward 
light 

That make the path before him al- 
ways bright ; 

Who, with a natural instinct to dis- 
cern 

What knowledge can perform, is dili- 
gent to learn ; 

Abides by this resolve, and stops not 
there, 

But makes his moral being his prime 
care ; 

Who, doomed to go in company with 
pain. 

And fear, and bloodshed, miserable 
train ! 

Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 

In face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our human nature's high- 
est dower ; 



HEROIC. 



ir/ 



Controls them and subdues, trans- 
mutes, bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their 
good receives ; 

By objects which might force the 
soul to abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compas- 
sionate ; 

Is placable, — because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacri- 
fice; 

More skilful in self-knowledge, even 
more pure, 

As tempted more ; more able to en- 
dure. 

As more exposed to suffering and 
distress ; 

Thence, also, more alive to tender- 
ness. 

— 'Tis he whose law is reason; who 
depends 

Upon that law as on the best of 
friends ; 

Whence, in a state where men are 
tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation 
rest. 

He fixes good on good alone, and 
owes 

To virtue every triumph that he 
loiows ; 

— Who, if he rise to station of com- 
mand. 

Rises by open means; and there will 
stand 

On honorable terms, or else retire, 

And in himself possess his own de- 
sire; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to 
the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of 
aim ; 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie 
in wait 

For wealth, or honors, or for worldly 
state : 

Whom they must follow ; on whose 
head must fall, ;. 

Like showers of manna, if they come 
at all ; 

Whose powers shed round him in the 
common strife. 

Or mild concerns of ordinaiy life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar 
grace; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 



Some awful moment to which Heaver 

has joined 
Great issues, good or bad for humau 

kind. 
Is happy as a lover ; and attired 
With sudden brightness like a man 

inspired ; 
And, through the heat of conflict^ 

keeps the law 
In calmness made, and sees what he 

foresaw ; 
Or if an unexpected call succeed. 
Come when it will, is equal to the 

need: 
— He who, though thus endued as 

with a sense 
And faculty for storm and turbu- 
lence. 
Is yet a soul whose master bias 

leans 
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle 

scenes ; 
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er 

he be. 
Are at his heart ; and siich fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve ; 
More brave for this, that he hath 

much to love : 
'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted 

high. 
Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, 
Or left unthought of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward 

lot. 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish 

or not. 
Plays, in the many games of life, 

that one 
Wliere what he most doth value 

must be won ; 
Whom neither shape of danger can 

dismay. 
Nor thought of tender happiness be- 
tray ; 
Wlio, not content that former worth 

stand fast. 
Looks forward persevering to the 

last, 
From well to better, daily self-sur- 

l^assed : 
Who, whether praise of him must 

walk the earth 
Forever, and to noble deeds give 

birth. 
Or he must go to dust without his 

fame. 
And leave a dead, unprofitable 

name, — 



198 



PARNASSUS. 



Finds comfort in himself and in his 
cause ; 

And, while the mortal mist is gath- 
ering, di'aws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's 
applause : 

This is the happy warrior: this is 
he 

That every man in aims should 
wish to be. 

WORDSWOBTH. 



CHEISTIAN MILITANT. 

A MAN prepared against all ills to 
come, 

That dares to dead the fire of martyr- 
dom ; 

That sleeps at home, and sailing 
there at ease. 

Fears not the fierce sedition of the 
seas; 

That's counterproof against the 
farnl's mishaps; 

Undreadful too of courtly thunder- 
claps ; 

That wears one face, like heaven, 
and never shows 

A change, when fortune either comes 
or goes ; 

That keeps his own strong guard, in 
the despite 

Of what can hurt by day, or harm by 
night; 

That takes and re-delivers every 
stroke 

Of chance, as made up all of rock 
and oak ; 

That sighs at other's death, smiles 
at his own 

Most dire and horrid crucifixion ; 

Wlio for true glory suffers- thus, we 
grant 

Hun to be here our Christian mili- 
tant. 

Hekkick. 



THE PRAYER. 

Ah God, for a man with heart, head, 

hand. 
Like some of the simple great ones 

gone 
For ever and ever by. 



One still strong man in a blatant 

land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — 

one 
Who can I'ule, and dare not lie ! 

Tennyson. 



ROYALTY. 

That regal soul I reverence, in 

whose eyes 
Sufiices not all worth the city 

knows 
To pay that debt which his own 

heart he owes ; 
For less than level to his bosom 

rise 
The low crowd's heaven and stars: 

above their skies 
Runneth the road his daily feet have 

pressed ; 
A loftier heaven he beareth in his 

breast. 
And o'er the summits of achieving 

hies 
With never a thought of merit or of 

meed ; 
Choosing divinest labors through a 

pride 
Of soul, that holdeth appetite to 

feed 
Ever on angel-herbage, nought be- 
side; 
Nor praises more himself for hero- 
deed 
Than stones for weight, or open seas 

for tide. 

D. A. Wasson. 



THE MASTER SPIRIT. 

Give me a Spirit that on life's rough 

sea 
Loves to have his sails filled with a 

lusty wind, 
Even till his sailyards tremble, his 

masts crack, 
And his rapt ship run on her side so 

low 
That she drinks water, and her keel 

ploughs air : 
There is no danger to a man that 

knows 



HEROIC. 



199 



Wlieie life and death is; there's not 

any law 
Exceeds his knowledge, neither is it 

needful 
That he should stoop to any other 

law; 
He goes before tliem, and commands 

them all. 
That to himself is a law rational. 

Gkorge Cuapman. 



CHIVALRY. 

The house of Chivalry decayed, 

Or rather ruined seems, her build- 
ings laid 

Flat witli the Earth, that were the 
pride of Time ; 

Those obelislvs and columns broke 
and down. 

That strook the stars, and raised the 
British Crown 

To be a constellation. 

When to the structure went more 
noble names 

Than to the Ephesian Temple lost 
in flames. 

When every stone was laid by virtu- 
ous hands. 

Ben Jonson. 



SAMSON AGONISTES. 

Samson. — O dark, dark, dark, amid 

the blaze of noon. 
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 
Without all hope of day ! 
O first created beam, and thou great 

Word, 
" Let there be light, and light was 

over all;" 
"Wliy am I thus bereaved thy prime 

decree ? 
The svm to me is dark 
And silent as the moon, 
Wlien she deserts the night, 
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. 



Chorus. — This, this is he ; softly a 

while. 
Let us not break in upon him ; 
change beyond report, thought, or 

belief! 



See how he lies at random, carelessly 

diffused, 
With languished head vmpropped, 
As one past hope, abandoned, 
And by himself given over ; 
In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds 
O'er-worn and soiled; 
Or do my eyes misrepresent? can 

this be he. 
That heroic, that renowned. 
Irresistible Samson ? whom unarmed 
No strength of man or fiercest wild 

beast could withstand ; 
Wlio tore tlie lion, as the lion tears 

the kid. 
Ran on embattled armies clad in 

iron. 
And, weaponless himself, 
Made arms ridiculous, useless the 

forgery 
Of brazen shield and spear, the ham- 
mered cuirass, 
Chalybean tempered steel, and frock 

of mail 
Adamantean proof ; 
But safest he who stood aloof. 
When insuppoitably his foot ad- 
vanced. 
In scorn of their proud arms and 

warlike tools. 
Spurned them to death by troops. 

The bold Ascalonite 
Fled from his lion ramp ; old war- 
riors turned 
Their plated backs under his heel. 
Or, grovelling, soiled their crested 

helmets in tlie diiet. 
Then with what trivial weapon came 

to hand, 
The jaw of a dead ass, his sword of 

bone, 
A thousand foreskins fell, the flower 

of Palestine 
In Ramath-lechi, famous to this day: 
Then by main force pulled up, and 

on his shoulders bore 
The gates of Azza, post, and massy 

bar. 
Up to the hill by Hebron, seat of 

giants old, 
No journey of a Sabbath day, and 

loaded so ; 
Like whom the Gentiles feign to bear 

up heaven. 
Wliich sliall I first bewail, 
Thy bondage or lost sight, 
Prison within prison 
Inseparably dark ? 



200 



PARNASSUS. 



Thou art become, O worst imprison- 
ment ! 
The dungeon of thyself; tliy soul, 
Which nien enjoying sight oft with- 
out cause complain, 
Imprisoned now indeed, 
In real darkness of the body dwells. 
Shut up from outward light, 
T" incorporate with gloomy night. 

Oh, how comely it is, and how re- 
viving 

To the spirits of just men long 
oppressed, 

Wlien God into the hands of their 
deliverer 

Puts invincible might 

To quell the mighty of the earth, the 
oppressor, 

The brute and boisterous force of 
violent men. 

Hardy and industrious to support 

Tyrannic power, but raging to 
pursue 

The righteous, and all such as honor 
truth ! 

He all their ammunition 

And feats of war defeats, 

With plain heroic magnitude of mind 

And celestial vigor armed ; 

Their armories and magazines con- 
temns, 

Eenders them useless, while 

With winged expedition. 

Swift as the lightning glance, he 
executes 

His errand on the wicked, who sur- 
prised 

Lose their defence, distracted and 
amazed. 

Officer. — Samson, to thee our lords 

thus bid me say ; 
This day to Dagon is a solemn feast, 
With sacrifices, triumph, pomp, and 

games ; 
Thy strength they know surpassing 

human rate, 
And now some public proof thereof 

require 
To honor this great feast and great 

assembly ; 
Rise therefore with all speed and 

come along. 
Where I will see thee heartened and 

fresh clad 
T' appear as fits before the illustri- 
ous lords. 



Sams. — Thou know'st I am an 
Hebrew, therefore tell them. 

Our law forbids at their religious 
rites 

My presence ; for that cause I can- 
not come. 

Chor. — How thou wilt here come 

off surmounts my reach. 
Sams. — Be of good courage, I 

begin to feel 
Some rousing motions in me, which 

dispose 
To something extraordinary my 

thoughts, 
I with this messenger will go along, 
Nothing to do, be sure, that may 

dishonor 
Our law, or stain my vow of Naza- 

rite. 
If there be aught of presage in the 

mind. 
This day will be remarkable in my 

life 
By some great act, or of my days 

the last. 
Chor. — In time thou hast re- 
solved ; the man returns. 
Off. — Samson, this second mes- 
sage from our lords 
To thee I am bid say. Art thou our 

slave, 
Our captive, at the public mill our 

drudge, 
And dar'st thou at our sending and 

command 
Dispute thy coming ? come without 

delay ; 
Or we shall find such engines to 

assail 
And hamper thee, as thou shalt 

come of force. 
Though thou wert firmlier fastened 

than a rock. 
Sams. — I could be well content to 

try their art, 
Wliich to no few of them would 

prove pernicious ; 
Yet knowing their advantages too 

many, 
Because they shall not trail me 

through their streets 
Like a wild beast, I am content to 

go- 

Manoah. — O what noise ! 
Mercy of heaven, what hideous noise 
was that ! 



HEROIC. 



201 



Horribly loud, unlike the former 

shout. 
Chor. — To our wish I see one 

hither speeding, 
An Hebrew, as I guess, and of our 

tribe. 
Messenf/er. — Gaza yet stands, but 

all her sons are fallen, 
All in a moment overwhehned and 

fallen. 

Occasions drew me early to this city. 
And as the gates I entered with sun- 
rise, 
The morning trumpets festival pro- 
claimed 
Through each high-street. Little I 

had despatched 
When all abroad was rumored, that 

this day 
Samson should be brought forth to 

show the people 
Proof of his mighty strength in feats 

and games ; 
I sorrowed at his captive state, but 

minded 
Not to be absent at that spectacle. 
The building was a spacious theatre, 
Half-round, on two main pillars 

vaulted high. 
With seats, where all the lords and 

each degree 
Of sort might sit in order to behold ; 
The other side was open, where the 

throng 
On banks and scaffolds under sky 

might stand ; 
I among these aloof obscurely stood. 
The feast and noon grew high, and 

sacrifice 
Had filled their hearts with mirth, 

high cheer, and wine, 
When to their sports they turned. 

Immediately 
Was Samson as a public servant 

brought, 
In their state livery clad ; before him 

pipes 
And timbrels, on each side went 

armed guards. 
Both horse and foot, before him and 

behind 
Archers, and slingers, cataphracts, 

and spears. 
At sight of him the people with a 

shout 
Uifted the air, clamoring their God 

with praise, 



Wlio had made their dreadful enemy 

their thrall. 
He patient, but undaunted, where 

they led him, 
Came to the place, and what was set 

before him, 
Wliich without help of eye might be 

assayed. 
To heave, pull, draw, or break, he 

still performed 
All with incredible stupendous force, 
None daring to appear antagonist. 
At length for intermission sake they 

led him 
Between the pillars; he his guide 

requested. 
For so from such as nearer stood we 

heard. 
As over-tired to let him lean awhile 
With both his arms on those two 

massy pillars. 
That to the arched roof gave main 

supjjort. 
He unsuspicious led him; which 

when Samson 
Felt in his arms, with head awhile 

inclined. 
And eyes fast fixt he stood, as one 

who prayed. 
Or some great matter in his mind 

revolved : 
At last with head erect thus cried 

aloud, 
" Hitherto, lords, what your com- 
mands imposed 
I have performed, as reason was, 

obeying, 
Not without wonder or delight be- 
held : 
Now of my own accord such other 

trial 
I mean to show you of my strength, 

yet greater, 
As with amaze shall strike all who 

behold." 
This uttered, straining all his nerves 

he bowed ; 
As with the force of winds and 

waters pent, 
Wlien mountains tremble, those two 

massy pillars 
With horrible convulsion to and fro 
He tugged, he shook, till down they 

came, and drew 
The whole roof after them, with 

burst of thunder 
Upon the heads of all who sat be- 
neath, 



202 



PAEN ASSETS. 



Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, 

or priests. 
Their choice nobility and flower, not 

only 
Of this, but each Philistiancity round, 
Met from all parts to solemnize this 

feast. 
Samson.with these immixt.inevitably 
Pulled down the same destruction 

on himself ; 
The vulgar only 'scaped who stood 

M'ithout. 

2. Semi-chorus. — But he, though 

blind of sight, 
Despised and thought extinguished 

quite. 
With inward eyes illuminated. 
His fiery virtue roused 
From under ashes into sudden flame. 
Not as an evening dragon came, 
Assailant on the perched roosts 
And nests in order ranged 
Of tame villatic fowl ; but as an eagle 
His cloudless thunder bolted on their 

heads. 
So virtue given for lost, 
Depressed, and overthrown, as 

seemed. 
Like that self-begotten bird 
In the Arabian woods imbost. 
That no second knows nor third. 
And lay ere while a holocaust. 
From out her ashy womb now 

teemed. 
Revives, refloui'ishes, then vigorous 

most 
Wlien most unactive deemed ; 
And though her body die, her fame 

survives, 
A secular bird, ages of lives. 
Man. — Come, come, no time for 

lamentation now. 
Nor much more cause : Samson hath 

quit himself 
Like Samson, and heroically hath 

finished 
A life heroic, on his enemies 
Fully revenged. 

Milton. 



ARIADNE'S FAREWELL. 

The daughter of a king, how should 

I know 
That there were tinsels wearing face 

of gold, 



And worthless glass, which in the 

sunlight's hold 
Could shameless answer back my 

diamond's glow 
With cheat of kindred fire? The 

currents slow. 
And deep, and strong, and stainless, 

which had rolled 
Through royal veins for ages, what 

had told 
To them that hasty heat and lie 

could show 
As quick and warm a red as theirs ? 

Go free ! 
The sun is breaking on the sea's blue 

shield 
Its golden lances ; by their gleam I 

see 
Thy ship's white sails. Go free, if 

scorn can yield 
Thee freedom ! 

Then, alone, my love and I, — 
We both are royal ; we know how to 

die. 

H. H. 

CORONATION. 

At the king's gate the subtle noon 
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ; 

Into the drowsy snare too soon 
The guards fell one by one. 

Through the king's gate, unques- 
tioned then, 
A beggar went, and laughed, 
" This brings 
Me chance, at last, to see if men 
Fare bettei', being kings." 

The king sat bowed beneath his 
crown, 

Proppinghis face with listless hand ; 
Watching the hour-glass sifting down 

Too slow its shining sand. 

" Poor man, what wouldst thou 
have of me?" 

The beggar turned, and pitying. 
Replied, like one in dream, " Of thee. 

Nothing. I Avant the king." 

Uprose the king, and from his head 
Shook off the crown, and threw it 
by. 
" O man ! thou must have known, 
he said. 
" A greater king than I." 



HEROIC. 



203 



Through all the gates, unqviestioncd 
then, 
Went king and beggar hand in 
hand. 
Whispered the king, " Shall I know 
when 
Before his throne I stand ? " 

The beggar laughed. Free winds in 
haste 
AVere wiping from the king's hot 
brow 
The crimson lines the crown had 
traced. 
" This is his presence now." 

At the king's gate, the crafty noon 
Unwove its yellow nets of sun ; 

Out of their sleep in terror soon 
The guards waked one by one. 

"Ho here! Ho there! Has no man 
seen 
The king?" The cry ran to and 
fro; 
Beggar and king, they laughed, I 
ween. 
The laugh that free men know. 

On the king's gate the moss grew 

gray ; 
The king came not. They called 
him dead ; 
And made his eldest son one day 
Slave in his father's stead. 

H. H. 



JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 

Since our country, our God — Oh! 

my sire ! 
Demand that thy daughter expire; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy 

vow, 
Strike the bosom that's bared for 

thee now ! 

And the voice of mymoumingis o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no 

more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

And of this, oh, my father! be 

sure, 
That the blood of thy child is as 

pure 



As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
And the last thought that soothes 
me below. 

Though the virgins of Salem la- 
ment, 

Be the judge and the hero unbent! 

I have won the great battle for 
thee, 

And my father and country are 
free ! 

When this blood of thy giving hath 

gushed. 
When the voice that thou lovest is 

hushed. 
Let my memory still be thy pride. 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 

Bykon. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS 
LAST BATTLE. 

Warriors and chiefs! should the 

shaft or sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the 

Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, 

in your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of 

Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler 

and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look 

away from the foe. 
Stretch me that moment in blood at 

thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared 

not to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we 

part. 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart : 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the 

sway. 
Or kingly the death, which awaits 

us to-day ! 

Byron. 



CASSIUS. 

Well, honor is the subject of my 

story. — 
I cannot tell, what you and other 

men 



204 



PARNASSUS. 



Think of this life ; but, for my sin- 
gle self 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
I was born free as Cjesar ; so were 

you: 
We both have fed as well ; and we 

can both 
Endure the winter's cold, as well as 

he. 
For once upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tiber chafing with her 

shores, 
Caesar said to me, " Dar'st thou, Cas- 

mis, noio 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
And swim to yonder point f' Upon 

the word, 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in. 
And bade him follow: so, indeed, 

he did. 
The torrent roared, and we did 

buffet it 
With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside. 
And stemming it with hearts of con- 
troversy. 
But ere we could arrive the point 

proposed, 
Caesar cried, ^^ Help me, Cassius, or 

I sink.^^ 
I, as ^neas, our great ancestor, 
Did from the flames of Troy upon 

his shoulders 
The old Anchises bear, so, from the 

waves of Tiber 
Did I the tired Csesar: and this man 
Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 
A wretched creature, and must bend 

his body. 
If Csesar carelessly but nod on him. 
He had a fever when he was in 

Spain ; 
And when the fit was on him, I did 

mark 
How he did shake: 'tis true, this god 

did shake : 
His coward lips did from their color 

fly; 

And that same eye, whose bend 

doth awe the world, 
Did lose his lustre ; I did hear him 

groan : 
Ay, and that tongue of his, that 

bade the Romans 
Mark him, and write his speeches in 

their books, 
Alas! it cried, " Give me some drink, 

Titinius," 



As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth 

amaze me, 
A man of such a feeble temper 

should 
So get the start of the majestic world, 
And bear the palm alone. 
Why, man, he doth bestride the 

narrow world, 
Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs, and peep 

about 
To find ourselves dishonorable graves. 
Men at some time are masters of 

their fates ; 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our 

stars 
But in ourselves, that we are under- 
lings. 
Brutus and Caesar: What should be 

in that Caesar ? 
Wliy should that name be sounded 

more than yours ? 
Write them together, yours is as fair 

a name ; 
Sound them, it doth become the 

mouth as well ; 
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure 

with them, 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as 

Ca3sar. 
Now in the names of all the gods at 

once, 
Upon Avhat meat doth this our Cas- 

sar feed. 
That he is grown so great? Age, 

thou art shamed : 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of 

noble bloods ! 
When went there by an age, since 

the great flood, 
But it was famed with more than 

with one man ? 
When could they say, till now, that 

talked of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompassed 

but one man ? 
Now is it Rome indeed, and room 

enough, 
Wlien there is in it but one only 

man, 
O ! you and I have heard our fathers 

say. 
There was a Brutus once, that would 

have brooked 
The eternal devil to keep his state 

in Rome, 
As easily as a king. 

Shakspeare. 



HEROIC. 



205 



ANTONT OVER THE DEAD 
BODY OF C^SAR. 

Antony. — Fkiends, Romans, coun- 
trymen, lend me your ears : 

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise 
him. 

The evil that men do lives after them ; 

The good is oft interred with their 
bones ; 

So let it be with Csesar, The noble 
Brutus 

Hath told you Ctesar was ambitious ; 

If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 

And grievously hath Caesar answered 
"it. 

Here, under leave of Brutus, and 
the rest, 

(For Brutus is an honorable man; 

So are they all, all honorable men;) 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just 
to me : 

But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

He hath brought many captives 
home to Rome, 

■Wliose ransoms did the general 
coffers fill : 

Did this in Cfesar seem ambitious ? 

Wlien that the poor have cried, Cae- 
sar hath wept : 

Ambition should be made of sterner 
stuff : 

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious. 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

You all did see, that on the Lu- 
percal ; 

I thrice presented him a kingly 
crowrt, 

Which he did thrice refuse. Was 
this ambition ? 

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 

And, sure, he is an honorable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus 
spoke ; 

But here I am to speak what I do 
know. 

You all did love him once, not with- 
out cause ; 

Wliat cause withholds you, then, to 
mourn for him ? 

judgment, thou art fled to brutish 
beasts. 

And men have lost their reason ! — 
bear with me ; 

My heart is in the coffin there with 
Csesar, 



And I must pause till it come back 
to me. 

But yesterday, the word of Caesar 
might 

Have stood against the world : now 
lies he there. 

And none so poor to do him rever- 
ence. 

masters! if I were disposed to 

stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny 
and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cas- 

sius wrong. 
Who, you all know, are honorable 

men: 
I will not do them wrong ; I rather 

choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, 

and you. 
Than I will wrong such honorable 

men. 
But here's a parchment, with the 

seal of Caesar, 
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will : 
Let but the commons hear this tes- 
tament, 
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean 

to read,) 
And they would go and kiss dead 

Caesar's wounds, 
And dip their napkins in his sacred 

blood : 
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
And, dying, mention it within their 

wills. 
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy. 
Unto their issue. 
Citizen. — We'll hear the will; 

Read it, Mark Antony. 
Citizen. — The will, the will; we 

will hear Caesar's will. 
Antony. — Have patience, gentle 

friends, I must not read it ; 
It is not meet you know how Caesar 

loved you. 
You are not wood, you are not 

stones, but men ; 
And being men, hearing the will of 

Caesar, 
It will inflame you, it will make you 

mad : 
'Tis good you know not that you 

are his heirs. 
For if you should, O, what would 

come of it ! 
at. — Read the will ; we will 

hear it, Antony, 



206 



PARNASSUS. 



You shall read us the will; Caesar's 
will. 
Antomj. — Will you be patient? 
Will you stay awhile ? 

I have o'ershot myself, to tell you 
of it. 

I fear I wrong the honorable men, 

Whose daggers have stabbed Csesar : 
I do fear it. 
at. — They were traitors : Honor- 
able men ! 
at. — The will ! the testament ! 
at. — They were villains, mur- 
derers : the will ! read the 
will! 
Ant. — You will compel me then 
to read the will, 

Then make a ring about the corse 
of Csesar, 

And let me show you him that 
made the will. 

Shall I descend ? And will you give 
me leave ? 
at. — Come down. 
Ant. — Nay, press not so upon 

me ; stand far off. 
at. — Stand back ! room ! bear 

back! 
Ant. — If you have tears, prepare 
to shed them now. 

You all do know this mantle: I 
remember 

The first time ever Csesar put it on ; 

'Twas on a summer's evening in his 
tent ; 

That day he overcame the Nervii : — 

Look! in this place ran Cassius' 
dagger through : 

See what a rent the envious Casca 
made : 

Through this, the well-beloved Bru- 
tus stabbed : 

And, as he plucked his cursed steel 
away, 

Mark how the blood of Caesar fol- 
lowed it ; 

As rushing out of doors, to be 
resolved 

If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 

For Brutus, as you know, was Cae- 
sar's angel: 

Judge, O you gods, how dearly Ca;- 
sar loved him ! 

This was the mostunkindestcutof all. 

For when the noble Csesar saw him. 
stab. 

Ingratitude, more strong than trai- 
tors' arms, 



Quite vanquished him: then burst 

his mighty heart ; 
And, in his mantle muffling up his 

face, 
Even at the base of Pompey's 

statue, 
Wliich all the while ran blood, great 

Cfesar fell. 
O, what a fall was there, my country- 
men! 
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell 

down, 
Whilst bloody treason flourished 

over us. 
O, now you weep! and I perceive 

you feel 
The dint of pity : these are gi-acious 

droits. 
Kind souls, what, weep you when 

you but behold 
Our Cffisar's vesture wounded? 

Look you here. 
Here is himself, marred, as you see, 

with traitors. 



Good friends, sweet friends, let me 

not stir you up 
To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 
They that have done this deed are 

honorable ; 
What private griefs they have, alas, 

I know not. 
That made Ihem do it ; they are wise 

and honorable. 
And will, no doubt, with reasons 

answer you. 
I come not, friends, to steal away 

your hearts : 
I am no orator, as Brutus is, 
But as you know me all, a plain 

blunt man. 
That love my friend : and that they 

know full well 
That gave me public leave to speal% 

of him. 
For I have neither wit, nor words 

nor worth, 
Action, nor utterance, nor th( 

power of speech. 
To stir men's blood: I only speal 

right on ; 
I tell you that which you yourselvei 

do know ; 
Show you sweet Caesar's wounds 

poor, poor dumb mouths. 
And bid them speak for me : Bui 

were I Brutus, 






HEROIC. 



207 



And Brutus Antony, there were an 

Antony 
Would luHle up your spirits, and put 

a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that 

should move 
The stones of Kome to rise and 

mutiny. 

Shakspeare. 



SPEECH OF THE DAUPHIN. 

DaiqjJiin. — Your grace shall par- 
don me, I will not back ; 
I am too high-born to be propertied, 
To be a secondary at control, 
Or useful serving-man and instru- 
ment, 
To any sovereign state throughout 

the world. 
Your breath first kindled the dead 

coal of wars, 
Between this chastised kingdom and 

myself, 
And brought in matter that should 

feed this fire ; 
And now 'tis far too huge to be 

blown out 
With that same weak wind which 

enkindled it. 
You taught me how to know the 

face of right. 
Acquainted me with interest to this 

land, 
Yea, thrust this enterprise into my 

heart ; 
And come you now to tell me, John 

hath made 
His peace with Rome? What is that 

peace to me ? 
I, by the honor of my marriage-bed. 
After young Arthur, claim this land 

for mine ; 
And, now it is half conquered, must 

I back, 
Because that John hath made his 

peace with Rome ? 
Am I Rome's slave? What penny 

hath Rome borne, 
Wliat men provided, what munition 

sent. 
To underprop this action ? Is' t not I, 
That undergo this charge? Who 

else hut I, 
And such as to my claim are liable. 
Sweat in this business, and maintain 

this war? 



Have I not heard these islanders 

shout out, 

Vive le roy! as I have banked their 
towns ? 

Have I not liere the best cards for 
the game, 

To win this easy match jilayed for a 
crown ? 

And shall I now give o'er the yielded 
set? 

No, on my soul, it never shall be 
said. 
Outside or inside, I will not re- 
turn 

Till my attempt so much be glori- 
fled 

As to my ample hope was promised 

Before I drew this gallant head of 
war. 

And culled these fiery spirits from 
the world, 

To outlook conquest, and to win re- 
nown 

Even in the jaws of danger and of 
death. 

Shakspeare: Kinrj John. 



HOTSPUR'S QUARREL WITH 
HENRY IV. 

Hotspur. — The king is kind ; and 
well we know, the king 

Knows at what time to promise, when 
to pay. 

My father, and my uncle, and my- 
self. 

Did give him that same royalty he 
wears : 

And, — when he was not six and 
twenty strong, 

Sick in the world's regard, wretched 
and low, 

A poor unminded outlaw sneaking 
home, — 

My father gave him welcome to the 
shore : 

And, — when he heard him swear, 
and vow to God, 

He came but to be Duke of Lancas- 
ter, 

To sue his livery, and beg his peace ; 

With tears of innocency, and terms 
of zeal, — 

My father in kind heart and pity 
moved, 

Swore him assistance, and performed 
it too. 



208 



PARNASSUS. 



Now when the lords and barons of 

the realm 
Perceived Northumberland did lean 

to him, 
The more and less came in with cap 

and knee, 
Met him in boroughs, cities, villages ; 
Attended him on bridges, stood in 

lanes, 
Laid gifts before him, proffered him 

their oaths. 
Gave him their heirs as pages ; fol- 
lowed him. 
Even at the heels, in golden multi- 
tudes. 
He presently, — as greatness knows 

itself, — 
Steps me a little higher than his vow 
Made to my father, while his blood 

was poor. 
Upon the naked shore at Ravens- 

purg; 
And now, forsooth, takes on him to 

reform 
Some certain edicts, and some 

strait decrees, 
That He too heavy on the common- 
wealth : 
Cries otit upon abuses, seems to 

weep 
Over his country's wrongs; and by 

this face. 
This seeming brow of justice, did he 

win 
The hearts of all that he did angle 

for. 
Proceeded farther; cut me off the 

heads 
Of all the favorites, that the absent 

king 
In deputation left behind him here, 
When he was personal in the Irish 

war. 

Then to the point. — 
In short time after, he deposed the 

king; 
Soon after that, deprived him of his 

life: 
And, in the neck of that, tasked the 

whole state ; 
To make that worse, suffered his 

kinsman, March, 
(Who is, if every owner were well 

placed. 
Indeed his king), to be incaged in 

Wales, 
There without ransom to lie for- 
feited : 



Disgraced me in my happy victo- 
ries ; 

Sought to entrap me by intelligence ; 

Eated my uncle from the council- 
board ; 

In rage dismissed my father from 
the court ; 

Broke oath on oath, committed 
wrong on wrong. 

And, in conclusion, drove us to seek 
out 

This head of safety ; and, withal, to 
pry 

Into his title, the which we find 
Too indirect for long continuance. 
Shakspeake : King Henry IV. 



HOTSPUR. 

King Henry. — Send us your pris- 
oners, or you'll hear of it. 
I Exit. 
Hotspur. — And if the devil come 
and roar for them, 

I will not send tl; em : — I will after 
straight, \ 

And tell him so'*' ^or I will ease my 
heart. 

Although it be ^^'h hazard of my 
head. 

Not speak of M'^'^^^^er? 

Zounds, I will s''®^^^ of him ; and let 
my soul , 

Want mercy, i ■•• "O not join with 
him: , 

Yea, on his p"-'*' ^ ^^ ei npty all these 
veins, , t( 

And shed n <>."®*r h lood drop by 
drop ipiY*^ aust tv. 

But I will 1 ift th^'^jv^i 1-trod Morti- 
mer 1 

As high in tfhe air as this unthankful 
king, f 

As this ingu'ate and cankered Boling- 
brok«3. 

He will, foj ;sooth, have al my prison- 
ers, f 

And when)) I urged the ransom once 
agaim. 

Of my wif ^e's brother, then his cheek 
loo^Kcd pale; 

And on m|y face he turned an eye of 
dea'jh, 

Trembliugi even at the name of Mor- 
tim(3r. 
. . . 'I cannot blame his cousin 
king, 



I! 



HEROIC. 



209 



That wished him on tlie barren 

mountains starved, 
But shall it be, that you, — that set 

the crown 
Upon the head of this forgetful man, 
And, for his sake, wear the detested 

blot 
Of murderous subornation, — shall it 

be. 
That you a world of curses undergo, 
Being the agents, or base second 

means. 
The cords, the ladder, or the hang- 
man rather? — 
(O, pardon me, that I descend so low, 
To show the line,and the predicament, 
Wherein you range under this subtle 

king, — ) 
Shall it, for shame, be spoken in 

these days. 
Or fill up chronicles in time to come. 
That men of your nobility and power. 
Did gage them both in an unjust be- 
half, — 
As both of you, God pardon it ! have 

done, — 
To put down Kichard, that sweet 

lovely rose. 
And plant this thorn, this canker, 
Boliugbroke ? 

Send danger from the east unto the 
west. 

So honor cross it from the north to 
south, 

And let them grapple ; O ! the blood 
more stirs 

To rouse a lion than to start a hare. 

By heaven, methinks, it were an 
easy leap, 

To pluck bright Honor from the pale- 
faced moon ; 

Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 

Where fathom-line could never touch 
the ground. 

And pluck up drowned honor by the 
locks ; 

So he that doth redeem her thence, 
might wear, 

Without corrival, all her dignities : 

But out upon this half-faced fellow- 
ship! 
Worcester. — Those same noble 
Scots, 

That are your prisoners, — 
Hot. — I'll keep them all ; 

By heaven, he shall not have a Scot 
of them: 

U 



No, if a Scot would save his soul, he 
shall not : 

I'll keep them, by this hand. 

I will; that's flat: — 

He said he would not ransom Morti- 
mer; 

Forbade my tongue to speak of Mor- 
timer ; 

But I will find him when he lies 
asleep. 

And in his ear I'll holla — "Morti- 
mer!" 

Nay, 

I'll have a starling shall be taught to 
speak 

Nothing but Mortimer, and give it 
him, 

To keep his anger still in motion. 

All studies here I solemnly defy. 

Save how to gall and pinch this Bo- 
lingbroke : 

And that same sword-and-buckler 
Prince of Wales, — 

But that I think his father loves him 
not. 

And would be glad he met with 
some mischance, 

I'd have him poisoned with a pot of 
ale. 

Why, look you, I am whipped and 
scourged with rods, 

Nettled, and stung with pismires, 
when I hear 

Of this vile i^olitician, Bolingbroke. 

In Richard's time, — What do you 
call the place ? 

A plague upon't! it is in Gloucester- 
shire ; — 

'Twas where the madcap duke his 
uncle kept ; 

His uncle York ; — where I first 
bowed my knee 

Unto this king of smiles, this Bo- 
lingbroke, 

When you and he came back from 
Raveuspurg. 

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy 

This fawning greyhound then did 
proffer me ! 

Look, — lohenhis infant fortune came 
to age. 

And, — gentle Harry Percy, — and 
kind cousin, — 

The devil take such cozeners! — 
Heaven forgive me ! — 

Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have 
done. 
Shakspeare : King Henry IV. 



210 



PARNASSUS. 



HENRY V.'S AUDIENCE OF 
FRENCH AMBASSADORS. 

Henry V. — Call in the messen- 
gers sent from the Dauphin. 

[Exit an Attendant. The King 
uficends his throne.] 

Now are we well resolved : and, — 
by God's help, 

And yours, the noble sinews of our 
power, — 

France being ours, we'll bend it to 
our awe, 

Or break it all to pieces: or there 
we'll sit, 

Ruling in large and ample empery, 

O'er France, and all her almost 
kingly dukedoms. 

Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, 

Tombless, with no remembrance 
over them : 

Either our history shall, with full 
mouth, 

Spe^k freely of our acts ; or else our 
grave. 

Like Turkish mute, shall have a 
tongueless mouth, 

Not worshipped with a waxen epi- 
taph. 

Enter Ambassadors of France. 

Now are we well prepared to know 
the pleasure 

Of our fair cousin Dauphin ; for we 
hear 

Your greeting is from him, not from 
the king. 

[And as the DaujDhin sends us ten- 
nis-balls,] 

We are glad the Dauphin is so pleas- 
ant with us : 

His present, and your pains, we 
thank you for : 

When we have matched our rackets 
to these balls, 

We will, in France, by God's grace, 
play a set. 

Shall strike his father's crown into 
the hazard : 

Tell him, he hath made a match 
with such a wrangler. 

That all the courts of France will be 
disturbed 

With chaces. And we understand 
him well. 

How he comes o'er us with our wild- 
er days, 

Not measuring what use we made 
of them. 



We never valued this poor seat of 

England; 
And therefore, living hence, did give 

ourself 
To barbarous license; as 'tis ever 

common. 
That men are merriest when they 

are from home. 
But tell the Dauphin, — I will keep 

my state ; 
Be like a Idng, and show my sail of 

greatness, 
When I do rouse me in my throne 

of France : 
For that I have laid by my majesty. 
And plodded like a man for working- 
days; 
But I will rise there with so full a 

glory. 
That I will dazzle all the eyes of 

France, 
Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to 

look on us. 
And tell the pleasant prince, — this 

mock of his 
Hath turned his balls to gun-stones ; 

and his soul 
Shall stand sore charged for the 

wasteful vengeance 
That shall fly with them : for many 

a thousand widows 
Shall this his mock mock out of their 

dear husbands : 
Mock mothers from their sons, mock 

castles down ; 
And some are yet ungotten, and un- 
born, 
That shall have cause to curse the 

Dauphin's scorn. 
But this lies all within the will of 

God, 
To whom I do appeal ; and in whose 

name, 
Tell you the Dauphin, I am coniing 

on, 
To venge me as I may, and to put 

forth 
My rightful hand in a well-hallowed 

cause. 
So get you hence in peace ; and tell 

the Dauphin, 
His jest will savor but of shallow 

wit. 
When thousands weep, more than 

did laugh at it. — M 

Convey them with safe conduct. -B 



Fare you well. 



Shakspeare. 



HEROIC. 



211 



BATTLE ON ST. CRISPIAN'S 
DAY. 

Westmorelanil. — O that we now 

had here 
{Enter King Heney) 
But one ten thousand of those men 

in England 
That do no work to-day ! 
K. Ilenry. — What's he that wishes 

so? 
My cousin Westmoreland ? — No, 

my fair cousin : 
If we are marked to die, we are 

enough 
To do our country loss; and if to 

live, 
The fewer men, the greater share of 

honor. 
God's will ! I pray thee, wish not 

one man more. 
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ; 
Nor care I who doth feed upon my 

cost; 
It yearns me not, if men my gar- 
ments wear : 
Such outer things dwell not in my 

desires : 
But, if it be a sin to covet honor, 
I am the most offending soul alive. 
No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man 

from England : 
God's peace! I would not lose so 

great an honor. 
As one man more, methinks, would 

share from me. 
For the best hope I have. O, do not 

wish one more : 
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, 

through my host. 
That he who hath no stomach to 

this fight, 
Let him depart; his passport shall 

be made. 
And crowns for convoy put into his 

purse : 
We would not die in that man's 

company. 
That fears his fellowship to die with 

us. 
This day is called — the feast of 

Crispian: 
He that outlives this day, and comes 

safe home. 
Will stand on tip-toe when this day is 

named, 
A.nd rouse him at the name of 

Crispian : 



He that shall live this day, and see 

old age. 
Will yearly on the vigil feast his 

friends. 
And say — To-morrow is Saint 

Crispian : 
Then will he strip his sleeves, and 

show his scars. 
And say, these wounds I had on 

Crisiiian's day. 
Old men forget; yet all shall be 

forgot. 
But he'll remember, with advan- 
tages. 
What feats he did that day: then 

shall our names. 
Familiar in their mouths as house- 
hold words, — 
Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter, 
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and 

Gloster, — 
Be in their flowing cups freshly re- 
membered : 
This story shall the good man teach 

hi* son; 
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go 

by, 
From this day to the ending of the 

world. 
But we in it shall be remembered : 
We few, we happy few, we baud of 

brothers ; 
For he, to-day, that sheds his blood 

with me, 
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so 

vile. 
This day shall gentle his condition : 
And gentlemen in England, now 

abed. 
Shall think themselves accursed 

they were not here, 
And hold their manhood cheap, 

while any speaks 
That fought with us upon Saint 

Crispin's day. 

Shakspeare. 



KING RICHARD'S SOLILOQUY. 

Richard III. — Now is the winter 

of our discontent 
Made glorious summer by this son 

of York; 
And all the clouds, that lowered 

upon our house, 
In the deep bosom of the ocean 

buried. 



212 



PARNASSUS. 



Now are our brows bound with 
victorious wreaths ; 

Our bruised arms hung up for mon- 
uments ; 

Our stern alarums changed to merry 
meetings, 

Our dreadful marches to delightful 
measures. 

Grim-visaged war hath smoothed 
his wrinkled front ; 

And now, — instead of mounting 
barbed steeds. 

To fright the souls of fearful adver- 
saries, — 

He capers nimbly in a lady's cham- 
ber, 

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 

But I, — that am not shaped for 
sportive tricks, 

Nor made to court an amorous look- 
ing-glass ; 

I, that am rudely stamped, and want 
love's majesty. 

To strut before a wanton ambling 
nymph, » 

I, that am ciirtailed of this fair 
proportion. 

Cheated of feature by dissembling 
nature. 

Deformed, unfinished, sent before 
my time 

Into this breathing world, scarce 
half made up. 

And that so lamely and unfashion- 
able 

That dogs bark at me as I halt by 
them ; — 

Why I, in this weak piping time of 
peace, 

Have no delight to pass away the 
time ; 

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, 

And descant on mine own deformity ; 

And therefore, since I cannot prove 
a lover, 

To entertain these fair well-spoken 
days, — 

I am determined to prove a villain. 

And hate the idle pleasures of these 
days, — 

Plots have I laid, inductions danger- 
ous, 

By drunken prophecies, libels, and 
dreams. 

To set my brother Clarence, and the 
king 

In deadly hate the one against the 
other : 



And, if King Edward be as true and 
just 

As I am subtle, false, and treacher- 
ous. 

This day should Clarence closely be 
mewed up; 

About a prophecy, which says — 
that G 

Of Edward's heirs the murderer 
shall be. 

Dive, thoughts, down to my so\\\: 
here Clarence comes. 

Shakspeake. 



BOADICEA. 

When the British warrior queen. 
Bleeding from the Eoman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief ; 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage and full of grief. 

" Princess ! if our aged eyes 
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

'Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

Rome shall perish : write that word 
In the blood that she ifas sjjilt, — 

Perish, hopeless and abhorred. 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

Rome, for empire far renowned. 
Tramples on a thousand states ; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground : 
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates ! 

Other Romans shall arise, 
Heedless of a soldier's name; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the 
prize, 
Harmony the path to fame. 

Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our laud, 

Armed with thimder, clad with 
wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

Regions Caesar never knew 
Thy posterity shall sway ; 

Where his eagles never flew, 
None invincible as they." 



HEROIC. 



213 



Such the hard's prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire. 

Bending as he swept tlie chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride, 
Felt them in her bosom glow: 

Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

Ruffians ! pitiless as proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 
Empire is on us bestowed, 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 

COWPEE. 

BONDUCA. 

[Bonduca the British queen, taking 
occasion from a defeat of the Romans to 
impeach their valor, is rebuked by Ca- 
ratac] 

Queen Bonduca, I do not grieve 

your fortune. 
If I grieve, 'tis at the bearing of 

your fortunes ; 
You put too much wind to your sail : 

discretion 
And hardy valor are the twins of 

honor. 
And niirsed together, make a con- 
queror ; 
Divided, but a talker. 'Tis a truth, 
That Rome has tied before us twice, 

and routed ; — 
A truth we ought to crown the gods 

for, lady, 
And not our tongues. 
You call the Romans fearful, fleeing 

Romans, 
And Roman girls : — 
Does this become a doer? are they 

such ? 
Wliere is your conquest then ? 
Why are your altars crowned with 

wreaths of flowers. 
The beast with gilt horns waiting 

for the fire ? 
The holy Druides composing songs 
Of everlasting life to Victory? 
Why are these triumphs, lady? for 

a May-game ? 
For hunting a poor herd of wretched 

Romans? 
Is it no more ? shut up your temples, 

Britons, 
And let the husbandman redeem his 

heifers ; 



Put out our holy fires; no timbrel 

ring; 
Let's home and sleep ; for such great 

overthrows 
A candle burns too bright a sacrifice ; 
A glow-worm's tail too full a flame. 
You say, I doat upon these Ro- 
mans ; — 
Witness these wounds, I do; they 

were fairly given : 
I love an enemy, I was born a sol- 
dier ; 
And he that in the head of 's troop 

defies me, 
Rending my manly body with his 

sword, 
I make a mistress. Yellow-tressed 

Hymen 
Ne'er tied a longing virgin with 

more joy, 
Than I am married to that man that 

wounds me : 
And are not all these Roman ? Ten 

struck battles 
I sucked these honored scars from, 

and all Roman. 
Ten years of bitter nights and heavy 

marches, 
Wlien many a frozen storm sung 

through my cuirass, 
And made it doubtful whether that 

or I 
Were the more stubborn metal, 

have I wrought through, 
And all to try these Romans. Ten 

times a night 
I have swum the rivers, when the 

stars of Rome 
Shot at me as I floated, and the bil- 
lows 
Tumbled their watery ruins on my 

shoulders. 
Charging my battered sides with 

troops of agues. 
And still to try these Romans; 

whom I found 
As ready, and as full of that I 

brought, 
(Which was not fear nor flight,) as 

valiant, 
As vigilant, as wise, to do and 

suffer, « 

Ever advanced as forward as the 

Britons ; 
Have I not seen these Britons 
Run, run, Bonduca ? — not the quick 

rack swifter ; 
The virgin from the hated ravisher 



214 



PARNASSUS. 



Not half so fearful; — not a flight 

drawn home, 
A round stone from a sling, a lover's 

wish. 
E'er made that haste they have. By 

heavens ! 
I have seen these Britons that you 

magnify, 
Kun as they would have out-run 

time, and roaring, — 
Basely for mercy, roaring ; the light 

shadows, 
That in a thought scour o'er the 

fields of corn. 
Halted on crutches to them. Yes, 

Bonduca, 
I have seen thee run too, and thee, 

Nennius ; 
Yea, run apace, hoth; then when 

Penyus, 
The Roman girl, cut through your 

armed carts. 
And drove them headlong on ye 

down the hill ; — 
Then when he hunted ye like 

Britain foxes, 
More by the scent than sight : then 

did I see 
These valiant and approved men of 

Britain, 
Like boding owls, creep into tods of 

ivy, 
And hoot their fears to one another 

nightly. 
I fled too. 
But not so fast; your jewel had 

been lost then. 
Young Hengo there ; he trasht me, 

Nennius : 
For when your fears outrun him, 

then stept I, 
And in the head of all the Romans' 

fury 
Took him, and, with my tough belt 

to my back, 
I buckled him; — behind him, my 

sure shield ; — 
And then I followed. If I say I 

fought 
Five times in bringing off this bud of 

Britain, 
I lie not, Nennius. Neither had ye 

heard 
Me speak this, or ever seen the child 

more. 
But that the son of Virtue, Penyus, 
Seeing me steer through all these 

storms of danger, 



My helm still on my head, my 

sword my prow. 
Turned to my foe my face, he cried 

out nobly, 
" Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp 

off safely ; 
Thy manly sword has ransomed 

thee : grow strong. 
And let me meet thee once again 

in arms : 
Then if thou stand' st, thou art 

mine." I took his offer, 
And here I am to honor him. 

There's not a blow we gave since 

Julius landed, 
That was of strength and worth, but 

like records 
They file to after-ages. Our Registers 
The Romans are, for noble deeds of 

honor ; 
And shall we burn their mentions 

with vipbraidings ? 
Had we a difference with some petty 

Isle, 
Or with our neighbors, lady, for 

our landmarks. 
The taking in of some rebellious 

Lord, 
Or making a head against commo- 
tions. 
After a day of blood, peace might 

be argued : 
But where we grapple for the 

ground we live on, 
The Liberty we hold as dear as life, 
The gods we worship, and next 

those, our honors. 
And with those swords that know no 

end of battle : 
Those men beside themselves allow 

no neighbor ; 
Those minds that, where the day is, 

claim inheritance ; 
And where the sun makes ripe the 

fruits, their harvest ; 
And where they march, but measure 

out more ground 
To add to Rome, and here in the 

bowels on us ; 
It must not be ; no, as they are our 

foes, 
And those that must be so until we 

tire 'em. 
Let's use the peace of Honor, that's 

fair dealing; 
But in our ends, ovir swords. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



HEROIC. 



215 



THE BARD. 



I. 1. 



" Ruin seize thee, ruthless king ! 
Confusion on thy banners wait; 
Though fanned by Conquest's crim- 
son wing, 
Tliey mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail. 
Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall 
avail 
To save thy secret soul from night- 
ly fears, 
From Cambria's curse, from Cam- 
bria's tears!" 
Such were the sounds that o'er the 
crested pride 
Of the first Edward scattered wild 
dismay. 
As down the steep of Snowdon's 
shaggy side 
He wound with toilsome march 
his long array. 
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in 

speechless ti'ance : 
"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and 
couched his quivering lance. 

I. 2. 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming 
flood. 
Robed in the sable garb of woe. 

With haggard eyes the poet stood ; 

(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 

Streamed, like a meteor, to the trou- 
bled air). 

And with a master's hand, and 
prophet's fire. 

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
'•Hark, how each giant-oak, and 
desert cave. 

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice 
beneath ! 

O'er thee, oh King! their hundred 
arms they wave. 
Revenge on thee in hoarser mur- 
murs breathe ; 

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal 
day. 

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft 
Llewellyn's lay. 

I. 3. 

" Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 
That huslied the stormy main : 



Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy 
bed: 
Mountains ! ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his 
cloud-topped head. 
On dreary Arvon's shore they 
lie. 
Smeared with goi-e, and ghastly 

pale: 
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens 
sail; 
The famished eagle screams, and 
passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful 
art. 
Dear as the light that visits these 
sad eyes. 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm 
my heart, 
Ye died amidst your dying coun- 
try's cries — 
No more I weep. They do not 
sleep. 
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
I see them sit, they linger yet, 

Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they 

join, 
And weave with bloody hands the 
tissue of thy line. 

II. 1. 

"Weave the warp, and weave the 
woof, 

The winding sheet of Edward's race. 
Give ample room, and verge 
enough 

The characters of hell to trace. 

Mark the year, and mark the night, 

Wlien Severn shall re-echo with 
affright 

The shrieks of death, through Berk- 
ley's roof that ring, 

Shrieks of an agonizing king! 

She-wolf of France, with unrelent- 
ing fangs. 

That tear' St the bowels of thy 
mangled mate, 
From thee be born, who o'er thy 
country hangs 

The scourge of heaven. Wliat ter- 
rors round him wait! 

Amazement in his van, with flight 
combined. 

And sorrow's faded form, and soli- 
tude behind. 



216 



PAliNASSUS. 



II. 2. 

" Mighty victor, mighty lord ! 
Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 

Is the sable warrior fled ? 
Thy son is gone. He rests among 

the dead. 
The swarm, that in thy noontide 

beam were born ? 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the 
zephyr blows. 
While proudly riding o'er the azure 
realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel 
goes; 
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure 
at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirl- 
wind's sway. 
That, hushed in grim repose, expects 
his evening prey. 

II. 3. 

" Fill high the sparkling bowl, 
The rich repast prepare ; 
Reft of a crown, he yet may share 
the feast : 
Close by the regal chair 
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
A baleful smile upon their baffled 
guest. 
Heard ye the din of battle bray. 
Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 
Long years of havoc urge their 
destined course. 
And through the kindred squadrons 
mow their way. 
Ye towers of Juiius, London's 
lasting shame. 
With many a foul and midnight 
murder fed. 
Revere his consort's faith, his 
father's fame, 
And sjjare the meek usurper's holy 

head. 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 
Twined with her blushing foe, we 
spread : 
The bristled boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the ac- 
cursed loom, 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and 
ratify his doom. 



in. 1. 

" Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
(Weave we the woof. The thread is 

spun. ) 
Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
(The web is wove. The work is 

done.) 
Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here 

to mourn : 
In yon bright track, that fires the 

western skies. 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But oh! what solemn scenes on 

Snowdon's height 
Descending slow their glittering 

skirts unroll ? 
Visions of glory, spare my aching 

sight ! 
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my 

soul ! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we 

bewail. 
All hail, ye genuine kings, Britan- 
nia's issue, hail! * 

m. 2. 

" Girt with many a bai'on bold. 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 
And gorgeous dames, and states- 
men old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton- 
line ; 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding 

face. 
Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symijhonious tremble 
in the air. 
What strains of vocal transport 

round her jDlay 
Hear from the grave, great Talies- 

sin, hear; 
They breathe a soul to animate] 
thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as ] 

she sings, 
Waves in the eye of heaven her ■ 
many-colored wings. 

III. 3. 

" The verse adorn again 

Fierce war, and faithful love. 
And truth severe, by fairy fiction 
drest. 



HEROIC. 



217 



In buskiiied measures move 
Pale griof, and pleasing pain, 
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing 
breast. 
A voice, as of the cherub-choir, 
Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 
And distant warblings lessen on my 
ear. 
That lost in long futurity expire, 
f^ond impious man, think'st thou 
yon sanguine cloud, 
Raised by thy breath, has quenched 
the orb of day ? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden 
flood, 
And wanns the nations with re- 
doubled ray. 
Enough for me ; with joy I see 
Tlie different doom our fates 
assign. 
Be thine despair, and sceptred care ; 
To triumph, and to die, are mine." 
He spolve, and headlong from the 

mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged 
to endless night. 

Gkay. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 

WIZABD. — LOCHIEL. 

Wizard. — Lochiel ! Lochlel, be- 
ware of the day 

When the Lowlands shall meet thee 
in battle array ! 

For a field of the dead rushes red on 
my sight, 

And the clans of CuUoden are scat- 
tered in fight : 

They rally, they bleed, for their 
kingdom and crown ; 

Woe, woe to the riders that trample 
them down ! 

Proud Cumberland prances, insult- 
nig the slain. 

And their hoof-beaten bosoms are 
trod to the plain. 

But hark ! through the fast-flashing 
lightning of war, 

Wlaat steed to the desert flies frantic 
and far ? 

'Tis thine, Oh GlenuUin! whose 
bride shall await, 

Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all 
niglit at the gate. 



A steed comes at morning : no rider 
is there ; 

But its bridle is red with the sign of 
despair. 

Weep, Albin! to death and captivity 
led! 

Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot num- 
ber the dead : 

For a merciless sword on Culloden 
shall wave, 

Culloden ! that reeks with the blood 
of the brave. 

Lochiel. — Go, preach to the cow- 
ard, thou death-telling seer ! 

Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful ap- 
pear. 

Draw, dotard, around thy old waver- 
ing sight ! 

This mantle, to cover the phantoms 
of fright. 

Wizard. — Ha ! laugh' st thou, Lo- 
chiel, my vision to scorn ? 

Proud bird of the mountain, thy 
plume shall be torn ! 

Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly 
forth, 

From his home, in the dark rolling 
clouds of the north ? 

Lo ! the death-shot of foemen out- 
speeding, he rode 

Companionless, bearing destruction 
abroad ; 

But down let him stoop from his 
havoc on high ! 

Ah! home let him speed — for the 
spoiler is nigh. 

Why flames the far summit ? Why 
shoot to the blast 

Those embers, like stars from the 
fu-mament cast ? 

'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all 
dreadfully driven 

From his eyry, that beacons the 
darkness of heaven. 

Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in 
might. 

Whose banners arise on the battle- 
ment's height. 

Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast 
and to burn ; 

Return to thy dwelling! all lonely 
return ! 

For the blackness of ashes shall 
mark where it stood, 

And a wild mother scream o'er her 
famishing brood. 



218 



PARNASSUS. 



LocMel. — False wizard, avaunt ! I 
have marshalled my clan: 

Their swords are a thousand, their 
bosoms are one ! 

They are true to the last of their 
blood and their breath. 

And like reapers descend to the har- 
vest of death. 

Then welcome be Cumberland's 
steed to the shock ! 

Let him dash his proud foam like a 
wave on the rock ! 

But woe to his kindred, and woe to 
his cause, 

Wlien Albin her claymore indig- 
nantly draws ; 

When her bonnetted chieftains to 
victory crowd, 

Clanranald the dauntless, and Mo- 
ray the proud ; 

All plaided and plumed in their tar- 
tan array — 

Wizard. — Lochiel, Lochiel, be- 
ware of the day ! 

For, dark and despairing, my sight 
I may seal, 

But man cannot cover what God 
would reveal : 

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mys- 
tical lore, 

And coming events cast their sha- 
dow before. 

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes 
shall ring 

With the bloodhounds, that bark for 
thy fugitive king. 

Lo! anointed by Heaven with the 
vials of wrath. 

Behold ; where he flies on his deso- 
late path ! 

Now, in darkness and billows, he 
sweeps from my sight : 

Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and 
cover his flight ! 

'Tis finished. Their thunders are 
hushed on the moors ; 

Culloden is lost, and my country 
deplores ; 

But where is the iron-bound pris- 
oner? Where? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in 
despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, ban- 
ished, fojlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast 
bleeding and torn ? 

Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; 



The war-drum is muffled, and black 
is the bier ; 

His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, 
dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit 
to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quiv- 
ering limbs. 

And his blood-streaming nostril in 
agony swims. 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze 
at his feet. 

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere 
it ceases to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poi- 
son the gale — 

LocMel. — Down, soothless insult- 

er ! I trust not the tale : 
Though my perishing ranks should 

be strewed in their gore. 
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the 

surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by 

chains. 
While the kindling of life in his 

bosom remains. 
Shall victor exult, or in death be 

laid low. 
With his back to the field, and his 

feet to the foe ! 
And leaving in battle no blot on his 

name. 
Look proudly to heaven from the 

death-bed of fame. 

Campbell, 



DEFIANCE. 

The unearthly voices ceased, 
And the heavy sound was still; 
It died on the river's breast, 
And it died on the side of the hill ; 
But round Lord David's tower 
The sound still floated near. 
For it rung in the Lady's bower, 
And it rung in the Lady's ear; 
She raised her stately head, 
And her heart throbbed high with 

pride, — 
" Your mountains shall bend. 
And yoiu- streams shall ascend. 
Ere Margaret be oiu- foeman's 

bride." 
Sir Walter Scott: Lay of Last 

Minstrel. 



HEROIC. 



219 



BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE' S ADDRESS TO HIS 
AR1.IY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ; 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 

Or to victor! e. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power: 
Chains and slaverie! 

Wlm will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee ! 

Wlaa for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ? 

Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 

But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow! 

Let us do, or die ! 
Burns. 



CROMWELL AND KING 
CHARLES. 

'Tis madness to resist or blame 
Tlie force of angry heaven' s flame ; 

And if we would speak true. 

Much to tlie man is due, 
Wlio from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere, 

As if his highest plot 

To plant the bergamot, 
Could by industrious valor climb 
To ruin the great worlv of Time, 

And cast the kingdoms old, 

Into another mould. 
Wliat field of all the civil war, 
Wliere his were not the deei3est scar ? 

And Hampton sliows what part 

He had of wiser art ; 
IVlierc, twining subtile fears with 
hope, 



He wove a net of such a scope. 

That Charles himself might 
chase 

To Carisbrook's nari-ow case; 
That thence the royal actor borne, 
The tragic scaffold might adorn. 

While round the armed bands. 

Did clajj their bloody hands. 
He nothing common did, or mean. 
Upon that memorable scene. 

But with his keener eye 

Tlie axe's edge did try ; 
Nor called the gods, witli vulgar spite, 
To vindicate his helpless right; 

But bo'wed his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 

Marvell. 



THE VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 
Wlaere the wa' -flower scents the 
dewy air, 
Where tlie howlet mourns in her ivy 
bower, 
And tells the midnight moon her 
care : 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens re- 
ply- 

The stream, adown its hazelly path. 
Was rushing by the ruined wa's. 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whose distant roaring swells and 
fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming 
forth 

Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; 
Athort the lift tliey start and shift, 

Like fortune's favors, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turned mine 
eyes, 

And by the moonbeam shook to see 
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 

Attired as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 

His daurin' look had daunted me ; 

And on his boniiet graved was plain, 
The sacred posy — Libertle .' 

Burns. 



220 



PARNASSUS. 



SCOTLAND. 

I MIND it weel, in early date, 
Wlien I was beardless, young, and 
blate. 

And first could thresh the barn ; 
Or hand a yokin' at the pleugh ; 
An' though forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ! 

Even then, a wish (I mind its power), 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast — 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or book could 
make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle spreading 
wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turned the weedin'-heuk aside. 

An' spared the symbol dear. 

BUKNS. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Of Nelson and the North, 
Sing the glorious day's renown, 
When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crown. 
And her arms along the deep proudly 

shone ; 
By each gun the lighted brand. 
In a bold determined hand, 
And the Prince of all the land 
Led them on, — 

Like leviathans afloat. 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line ; 

It was ten of April morn by the 

chime : 
As they drifted on their path. 
There was silence deep as death ; 
And the boldest held his breath. 
For a time. — 

But the might of England flushed 
To anticipate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 
O'er the deadly space between. 
"Hearts of oak," our captains cried; 

when each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the 

ships, 



Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. — 

Again! again! again! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly 

boom: — 
Then ceased — and all is wail. 
As they strike the shattered sail ; 
Or, in conflagration pale. 
Light the gloom. — 

Outspoke the victor then, 

As he hailed them o'er the wave, 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — 

So peace instead of death let us 

bring. 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 
With the crews, at England's feet, 
And make submission meet 
To our king." — 

Then Denmark blest our chief. 
That he gave her wounds repose ; 
And the sounds of joy and grief. 
From her jjeople wildly rose. 
As death withdrew his shades from 

the day ; 
Wliile the sun looked smiling bright 
O'er a wide and woful sight, 
Wliere the fires of funeral light 
Died away. — 

Now joy, old England, raise ! 
For the tidings of thy might. 
By the festal cities' blaze. 
While the wine cup shines in light; 
And yet amidst that joy and up- 
roar. 
Let us think of them that sleep, 
Full many a fathom deep. 
By thy wild and stormy steep 
Elsinore ! — 

Brave hearts I to Britain's pride 
Once so faithful and so true. 
On the deck of fame that died, — 
With the gallant good Kiou : 
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er 

their grave ! 
While the billow mournful rolls, 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave! — 

Campbell. 



HEROIC. 



221 



YE MAKINERS OF ENGLAND. 

Ye marinoi-s of England ! 

Tliat guard our native seas ; 

Whose flag has braved a thousand 

years 
The battle and the breeze : 
Your glorious standard launch again, 
To match another foe ! 
And sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy tempests blow ; 
Wliile the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

The spirit of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And ocean was. their grave ; 
Wliere Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy tempests blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark. 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain 

waves. 
Her home is on the deep. 
With thunders from her native oak 
She quells the flood below, — 
As they roar on the shore. 
When the stormy tempests blow ; 
Wlien the battle rages loud and long. 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn, 
Till danger's troubled night depart, 
And the star of peace return. 
Then, then, ye ocean warriors. 
Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 
"When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
Wlien the fiery fight is heard no more, 
And the storm has ceased to blow. 
Campbell. 



THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON 

THE SUBJUGATION OF 

SWITZERLAND. 

Two voices are there, — one is of 

the sea. 
One of the mountains, — each a 

mighty voice ; 



In both from age to age, thou didst 

rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music. Lib- 
erty ! 
There came a tyrant, and with holy 

glee 
Thou foughtst against him, but hast 

vainly striven ; 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at 

length art driven, 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard 

by thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been 

bereft : 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which 

still is left; 
For, high-souled maid, what sorrow 

would it be 
That mountain floods should thunder 

as before. 
And ocean bellow from his rocky 

shore. 
And neither awful voice be heard 

by thee ! 

WOKDSWORTH. 



SONNET. 

Alas ! what boots the long, laborious 

quest 
Of moral prudence, sought through 

good and ill ; 
Or pains abstruse, to elevate the 

will. 
And lead us on to that transcendent 

rest 
Wliere every passion shall the sway 

attest 
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign 

hill ? 
What is it but a vain and curious 

skill. 
If sapient Germany must lie de- 
pressed 
Beneath the brutal sword? Her 

haughty schools 
Shall blush ; and may not we with 

sorrow say, 
A few strong instincts and -a few 

plain rules, 
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, 

have wrought 
More for mankind at this unhappy 

day, 
Than all the pride of intellect and 

thought. 

WORDSWOIITH. 



222 



PARNASSUS. 



SCHILL. 

Bbave Schill! by death delivered, 

take thy flight 
From Prussia's timid region. Go, 

and rest 
With heroes, 'mid the Islands of the 

Blest, 
Or in the fields of empyrean light. 
A meteor wert thou crossing a dark 

niglit ; 
Yet shall thy name, conspicuous 

and sublime, 
Stand in the spacious firmament of 

time, 
Fixed as a star: such glory is thy 

right, 
Alas ! it may not be : for earthly fame 
Is fortune's frail dependent; yet 

there lives 
A Judge, who, as man claims by 

merit, gives ; 
To whose all-pondering mind a 

noble aim. 
Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed ; 
In whose pure sight all virtue doth 

succeed. 

WOKDSWOKTH, 



WATERLOO. 

There was a sound of revelry by 

night. 
And Belgium's capital had gath- 
ered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and 

bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women 

and brave men : 
A thousand hearts beat happily; 

and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous 

swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which 

spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage 

bell; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes 
like a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas 

but the wind. 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony 

street : 
On with the dance! let joy be 

unconfined ; 



No sleep till morn, when youth and 

pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with 

flying feet. 
But, hark! — that heavy sound 

breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would 

repeat, 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than 

before ! 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the can- 
non's oiDening roar! 

Within a windowed niche of that 

high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain : 

he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the 

festival, 
And caught its tone with death's 

prophetic ear; 
And when they smiled because he 

deemed it near, 
His heart more truly knew that 

peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a 

bloody bier. 
And roused the vengeance blood 

alone could quell : 
He rushed into the field, and, fore- 
most fighting, fell. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying 

to and fro. 
And gathering tears, and trem- 
blings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which, but an 

hour ago. 
Blushed at the praise of their own 

loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, 

such as press 
The life from out young hearts, 

and choking sighs 
Wliich ne'er might be repeated: 

who could guess 
If ever more should meet those 

mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such 
awful morn could rise ? 

And there was mounting in hot 
haste : the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the 
clattering car. 

Went pouring forward with impet- 
uous speed, 



HEROIC. 



228 



And swiftly forming in tlie ranks 

of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal 

afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming 

drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the 

morning star; 

While thronged the citizens with 

terror dumb, 

Or whispering, with white lips, " The 

foe ! They come ! they come ! ' ' 

Bykon. 



IN THE FIGHT. 

Thy voice is heard through rolling 
drums 
That beat to battle where he 
stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 

A moment, while the trumpets blow. 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 

The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine 

and thee. 

Tennyson. 



MURAT. 

There, where death's brief pang 

was quickest. 
And the battle's wreck lay thickest. 
Strewed beneath the advancing ban- 
ner 
Of the eagles' burning crest — 
There with thunder-clouds to fan her 
Victory beaming from her breast ! 
"Wliile the broken line enlarging 
Fell, or fled along the plain : — 
There be sure Murat was charging ! 
There he ne'er shall charge again ! 
Bykon. 



HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of 
night, 



Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle blade. 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder 

riven. 
Then rushed the steed to battle 

driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall 

glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling 

dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Wlio rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave ! 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Ah! few shall part where many 

meet! 
. The snow shall be their winding- 
sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Campbell. 



SONNET. 

It is not to be thought of that the 

flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the 

open sea 
Of the world's praise, from dark 

antiquity 
Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters 

un withstood," 
Roused though it be full often to a 

mood 
Which spurns the check of salutary 

bands. 
That this most famous stream in 

bogs and sands 
Should perish, and to evil and to good 



224 



PAKNASSUS. 



Be lost forever. In our halls is hung 
Armory of the invincible knights of 

old: 
We must be free or die, who speak 

the tongue 
That Shakspeare spake — the faith 

and morals hold 
Which Milton held. In every thing 

we are sprung 
Of Earth's first blood, have titles 

manifold. 

WOEDSWORTH. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE 
PORTS. 

A MIST was driving down the British 
Channel ; 
The day was just begun ; 
And through the window-panes, on 
floor and panel, 
Streamed the red autumn sun. 

It glanced on flowing flag and rip- 
pling pennon, 
And the white sails of ships ; 
And, from the frowning rampart, 
the black cannon 
Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, 

Hithe, and Dover, 

Were all alert that day. 

To see the French war-steamers 

speeding over 

When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like couchant 
lions, 
Their cannon, through the night. 
Holding their breath, had watched 
in grim defiance 
The seacoast opposite ; 

And now they roared, at drum-beat, 
from their stations 
On every citadel; 
Each answering each, with morning 
salutations. 
That all was well ! 

And down the coast, all taking up 
the burden, 
Replied the distant forts — 
As if to summon from his sleep the 
warden 
And lord of the Cinque Ports. 



Him shall no sunshine from the 
fields of azure, 
No drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black 
forts' embrasure, 
Awaken with their call I 

No more, surveying with an eye 
impartial 
The long line of the coast, 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old field- 
marshal 
Be seen upon his post ! 

For in the night, unseen, a single 
warrior. 
In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the 
Destroyer, 
The rampart wall has scaled ! 

He passed into the chamber of the 

sleeper, — 

The dark and silent room; 

And, as he entered, darker grew, 

and deeper 

The silence and the gloom. 

He did not pause to pai'ley, or dis- 
semble, 
But smote the warden hoar — 
Ah! what a blow! that made all 
England tremble 
And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly can- 
non waited. 
The sun rose bright o'erhead, — 
Nothing in Nature's aspect inti- 
mated 
That a great man was dead ! 

Longfellow. 



THE LOST LEADER. 



Just for a handful of silver he left 

us; 
Just for a ribbon to stick in his 

coat; 
Found the one gift of which fortune 

bereft us. 
Lost all the others she lets us 

devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled 

him out silver, 



HEROIC, 



225 



So much was theirs who so little 
allowed. 
How all our copper had gone for his 
service ! 
Rags — were they purple, his 
heart had been proud : 
We that had loved him so, followed 
him, honored him, 
Lived in his mild and magnificent 
eye, 
Learned liis great language, caught 
his clear accents, 
Made him our pattern to live and 
to die ! 
Shakspeare was of us, Milton was 
for us, 
Burns, Shelley, were with us, — 
they watch from their graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and 
the freemen ; 
He alone sinks to the rear and the 
slaves ! 



We shall march prospering, — not 
through his presence ; 
Songs may inspirit us, — not from 
his lyre; 
Deeds will be done — while he boasts 
his quiescence, 
Still bidding crouch whom the 
rest bade aspire. 
Blot out his name, then, — record 
one lost soul more. 
One task more declined, one more 
foot-path untrod. 
One more triumph for devils, and 
sorrow for angels, 
One wrong more to man, one 
more insult to God ! 
Life's night begins; let him never 
come back to us ! 
There would be doubt, hesitation, 
and pain. 
Forced praise on our part, — the 
glimmer of twilight. 
Never glad confident morning 
again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught 
him, — strike gallantly, 
Aim at our heart ere we pierce 
through his own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowl- 
edge and wait us. 
Pardoned in Heaven, the first by 
the throne ! 

EoBEBT Browning. 



Westward the course of Empire 

takes its way. 
The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with 

the day : 
Time's noblest offspring is the last. 
Bishop George Berkeley. 



ENTRANCE OF COLUMBUS 
INTO BARCELONA. 

Lo ! on his far-resounding path 

Sink crucifix and crown. 
And from high tower and balcony 

The light of Spain looks down, — 
For Beauty's dark, dark virgin eyes 

Gleam ceaseless round him now, 
As stars from still upheaving skies 

Would new-born from the waves 
arise 
On his advancing prow. 

Gkenville Mellen. 



INDIANS. 

Alas ! for them, their day is o'er, 
Their fires are out on hill and shore ; 
No more for them the wild deer 

bounds, 
The plough is on their hunting 

grounds ; 
The pale man's axe rings through 

their woods, 
The pale man's sail skims o'er their 

floods ; 
Their pleasant springs are dry ; 
Their children, — look, by power 

opprest, 
Beyond the mountains of the west, 
Their children go to die. 

Charles Sprague. 



THE LANDING OF THE PIL- 
GRIM FATHERS IN NEW 
ENGLAND. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rockbound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed. 

And the heavy night hu-^^ lark 
The kills and waters *■"' r, 

Wher.. a band of exiles moored their 
bark 
On the wild New England shore. 



226 



PARNASSUS. 



Not as the conqueror comes, 
They, the true-hearted, came; 

Not with the roll of the stirring 
drums. 
And the trumpet that sings of fame. 



Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert 
gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 



Amidst the storm they sang, 
And the stars heard, and the 
sea: 
And the sounding aisles of the dim 
woods rang 
To the anthem of the free ! 



The ocean eagle soared 
From his nest by the white wave's 
foam: 
And the rocking pines of the forest 
roai'ed, — 
This was their welcome home ! 



There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim band : — 

Why had they come to wither 
there. 
Away from their childhood's land ? 



There was woman's fearless eye, 
Lit by her deep love's truth; 

There was manhood's brow serenely 
high. 
And the fiery heart of youth. 



Wliat sought they thus afar ? 
Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of 

war? — 
They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 



Ay, call itiholy ground. 

The soil q here first they trod : 
They have left luistained what there 
they found, — 
Freedom to worship God. 

Hemans. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON. 

By broad Potomac's silent shore 
Better than Trajan lowly lies, 

Gilding her green declivities 
With glory now and evermore ; 

Art to his fame no aid hath lent ; 
His country is his monument. 

Anon 

BUNKER HILL. 

Now deeper roll the maddening 
drums. 

The mingling host like Ocean heaves, 

While from the midst a horrid wail- 
ing comes. 

And high above the fight the lonely 
bugle grieves. 

GkENVILLE MEJ.LEN. 



OLD IRONSIDES, 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high. 
And many an eye has danced to 
see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar: 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more ! 

Her deck, once red with heroes' 
blood, 
Wliere knelt the vanquished foe. 
When winds were hurrying o'er the 
flood. 
And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's 
tread, 
Or know the conquered knee : . 
The harpies of the shore shall 
pluck 
The eagle of the sea ! 

O better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ! 
Her thunders shook the mighty 
deep, 

And there should be her grave : 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail. 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale ! 

O, W. HOLMEa 



HEROIC. 



227 



ICHABOD! 

So fallen! so lost! the light with- 
drawn 

^VTiich once he wore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile him not, — the tempter hath 

A snare for all ; 
And pitying tears, not scorn and 
wrath, 

Befit his fall ! 

Oh ! dumb be passion, stormy rage, 

Wlien he who might 
Have litjhted up and led his age. 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to 
mark 
A bright soul driven, 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless 
dark, 
From hope and heaven ! 

Let not the land, once proud of him. 

Insult him now, 
Nor brand with deeper shame his 
dim 

Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead. 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, nought 
Save power remains, — 

A fallen angel's pride of thought, 
Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone; from those great 
eyes 

The soul has fled : 
When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead ! 



Then pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze, 

And hide the shame ! 

Whittiek. 



GREETING TO "THE GEORGE 
GRISWOLD." 

[The ship which bore to the Mereey the 
coutributlon of the United States to the 
reliei of Lancashii-e.] 

Before thy stem smooth seas were 
curled. 
Soft winds thy sails did move, 
Good ship, that from the Western 
world 
Bore freight of brothers' love. 

'Twixt starving here and thriving 
there. 

When wrath flies to and fro, 
Till all seems hatred everywhere, 

How fair thy white wings show ! 

O'er the great seas thy keel ploughed 
through 
Good ships have borne the chain 
That should have knit old world and 
new 
Across the weltering main. 

The chain was borne, — one kindly 
wave 
Of speech pulsed through its coil ; 
Then dumb and dead in ocean's 
grave 
Lay hope and cost and toil. 

But thou, good ship, again hast 
brought 
O'er these wide waves of blue, 
The chain of kindly word and 
thought 
To link those worlds anew. 

Punch. 



JOHN BROWN OF OSAWA- 
TOMIE. 

A BALLAD OF THE TIMES. 

[Containing ye True History of ye Great 
Virginia Fright.] 

John Bkown in Kansas settled, like 
a steadfast Yankee farmer, 
Brave and godly, with four sons — 
all stalwart men of might. 
There he spoke aloud for Freedom, 
and the Border-strife grew 
warmer, . ^ 

Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, 
in his absence, in the night ; 



228 



PARNASSUS. 



And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Came homeAvard in the morning — to 
find his house burned down. 

Then he grasped his trusty rifle, and 
boldly fought for Freedom ; 
Smote from border unto border the 
fierce, invading band ; 
And he and his brave boys vowed — 
so might Heaven help and 
speed 'em! — 
They would save those grand old 
prairies from the curse that 
blights the land ; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Said, " Boys, the Lord will aid us !" 
and he shoved his ramrod 
down. 

And the Lord did aid these men ; and 
they labored day and even. 
Saving Kansas from its peril, 
and their very lives seemed 
charmed ; 
Till the ruffians killed one son, in 
the blessed light of Heaven — 
In cold blood the fellows slew him, 
as he journeyed all unarmed; 
Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, 
and frowned a terrible frown ! 

Then they seized another brave boy, 
— not amid the heat of battle. 
But in peace, behind his plough- 
share, — and they loaded him 
with chains. 
And with pikes, before their horses, 
even as they goad their cattle. 
Drove him, cruelly, for their sport, 
and at last blew out his brains ; 
Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Raised his right hand up to Heaven, 
calling Heaven's vengeance 
down. 

And he swore a fearful oath, by the 

name of the Almighty, 
He would hunt this ravening evil 

that had scathed and torn him 

so; — 
He would seize it by the vitals ; he 

would crush it day and night ; 

he 



Would so pursue its footsteps, — so 
return it blow for blow — 
That Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Should be a name to swear by, in 
backwoods or in town ! 

Then his beard became more griz- 
zled, and his wild blue eye 
grew wilder, 
And more sharj^ly curved his 
hawk's-nose, snuffing battle 
from afar; 
And he and the two boys left, though 
the Kansas strife waxed mild- 
er. 
Grew more sullen, till was over the 
bloody Border War, 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by 
his fearful glare and frown. 

So he left the plains of Kansas and 
their bitter woes behind him, 
Slipt off into Virginia, where the 
statesmen all are born. 
Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and 
no one knew where to find 
him, 
Or whether he'd turned parson, or 
was jacketed and shorn ; 
For Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Mad as he was, knew texts enough 
to wear a parson's gown. 

He bought no ploughs and harrows, 
spades and shovels, or such 
trifles ; 
But quietly to his rancho there 
came, by every train. 
Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and 
his well-beloved Sharpe's ri- 
fles; 
And eighteen other madmen joined 
their leader there again. 
Says Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
"Boys, we've got an army large 
enough to march and whip the 
town! 

" Take the town, and seize the mus- 
kets, free the negroes, and then 
ann them ; 
Carry the County and the State, 
ay, and all the potent South ; 



HEROIC. 



229 



On their own heads be the slaughter, 
if their victims rise to liarm 
tliem — 
These Virginians! who believed 
not, nor would heed the warn- 
ing mouth." 

Says Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
" The world shall see a Republic, or 
my name is not John 
Brown!" 

'Twas the sixteenth of October, on 
the evening of a Sunday : 
" This good work," declared the 
captain, " shall be on a holy 
night!" 
It was on a Sunday evening, and, be- 
fore the noon of Monday, 
With two sons, and Captain Ste- 
phens, fifteen privates — black 
and white. 

Captain Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Marched across the bridged Potomac, 
and knocked the sentry 
down; 

Took the guarded armory-building, 
and the muskets and the can- 
non ; 
Captured all the county majors 
and the colonels, one by one ; 
Scared to death each gallant scion of 
Virginia they ran on. 
And before the noon of Monday, 
I say, the deed was done. 
Mad Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
With his eighteen other crazy men, 
went in and took the town. 

Very little noise and bluster, little 

smell of powder, made he ; 
It was all done in the midnight, 

like the emperor's cowp d' 

el at ; 
" Cut the wires ! stop the rail-cars ! 

hold the streets and bridges ! " 

said he. 
Then declared the new Republic, 

with himself for guiding 

This Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown ; 
And the bold two thousand citizens 
ran off and left the town. 



Then was riding and railroading and 
expressing here and thither ; 
And the Martinsburg Sharpshoot- 
ers and the Charlestown Vol- 
unteers, 
And the Shepherdstown and 
Winchester Militia hastened 
whither 
Old Brown was said to mixster his 
ten thousand grenadiers ! 
General Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown ! 
Behind whose rampant banner all 
the North was pouring down. 



But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners 
escaped from Old Brown's 
durance, 
And the effervescent valor of the 
Chivalry broke out. 
When they learned that nineteen 
madmen had the marvellous 
assurance — 
Only nineteen — thus to seize the 
place and drive them straight 
about ; 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Found an army come to take him, 
encamped around the town. 



But to storm with all the forces 
we have mentioned, was too 
risky ; 
So they hurried off to Richmond 
for the Government Ma- 
rines — 

Tore them from their weeping ma- 
trons, fired their souls with 
Bourbon whiskey. 

Till they battered down BrowTi's 
castle with their ladders and 
machines ; 

And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 

Received three bayonet stabs, and a 
cut on his brave old crown. 



Tallyho! the old Virginia gentry 

gather to the baying ! 
In they rushed and killed the game, 

shooting lustily away ; 
And whene'er they slew a rebel, 

those who came too late for 

slaying, 



230 



PARNASSUS. 



Not to lose a share of glory, fixed 
their bullets in his clay ; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Saw his sous fall dead beside him, and 
between them laid him down. 



How the conquerors wore their 
laurels; how they hastened 
on the trial ; 
How Old Brown was placed, half- 
dying, on the Charlestown 
court-house floor ; 
How he spoke his grand oration, in 
the scorn of all denial ; 
What the brave old madman told 
them — these are known the 
country o'er. 
" Hang Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown," 
Said the judge, "and all such 
rebels!" with his most judi- 
cial frown. 



But, Virginians, don't do it! for I 
tell you that the flagon. 
Filled with blood of Ofd Brown's 
offspring, was first poured by 
Southern hands ; 
And each drop from Old Brown's 
life-veins, like the red gore of 
the dragon, 
May spring up a vengeful Fury, 
hissing through your slave- 
worn lands ! 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
May trouble you more than ever, 
when you've nailed his cofiin 
down! 

E. C. Stedman. 
November, 1859. 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE RE- 
PUBLIC. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of 
the coming of the Lord ; 

He is trampling out the vintage where 
the grapes of wrath are stored ! 

He hath loosed the fateful lightning 
of his terrible swift sword ; 
His truth is marching on. 



I have seen him in the watch-fires 
of a hundred circling camps ; 

They have builded him an altar in 
the evening dews and damps : 

I have read his righteous sentence 
by the dim and flaring lamps : 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in 
burnished rows of steel : 

" As ye deal with my contemners, so 
with you my grace shall deal : 

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush 
the serpent with his heel. 
Since God is marching on." 



He has sounded forth the trumpet 
that shall never call retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men 
before his judgment-seat ; 

Oh be swift my soul, to answer him ! 
be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 



In the beauty of the lilies Christ was 

born across the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that 

transfigures you and me : 
As he died to make men holy, let us 
die to make men free. 
While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 



MARYLAND. 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Hark to thy wandering son's appeal 

Maryland ! 
My mother State ! to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with 
steel, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 



HEROIC. 



231 



Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust; 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust; 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
With Watson's blood, at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe, and dashing 
May, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and 
strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come! for thy dalliance does thee 
wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! to thine own heroic throng, 
That stalks with Liberty along, 
And give a new key to thy song,* 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's 
chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain : 
" Sic semper "'tis the proud refrain. 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland ! My Maryland I 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek : 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 

* The Star-Spangled Banner was written 
during the war of 1812 by Francis Key of 
Maryfi,nd. 



Better the fire upon thee roll, 
Better the blade, the shot, the bowl. 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 
Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The old Line's bugle, fife and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb : 
Huzza! she spurns the Northern 

scum! 
She breathes — she burns! she'll 
come ! she'll come ! 
Maryland ! My Maryland ! 

James R. Randall. 
PoiNTE Coupee, 
AprU 26, 1861. 

AT PORT ROYAL. 

The tent-lights glimmer on the land, 
The ship-lights on the sea ; 

The night-wind smooths with drift- 
ing sand 
Our track on lone Tybee. 

At last our grating keels outslide, 
Our good boats forward swing ; 

And while we ride the land-locked 
tide. 
Our negroes row and sing. 

For dear the bondman holds his gifts 

Of music and of song: 
The gold that kindly Nature sifts 

Among his sands of wrong ; 

The power to make his toiling days 
And poor home-comforts please ; 

The quaint relief of mirth that plays 
With sorrow's minor keys. 

Another glow than sunset's fire 
Has filled the West with light. 

Where field and garner, barn, and byre 
Are blazing through the night. 

The land is wild with fear and hate, 
The rout runs mad and fast ; 

From hand to hand, from gate to 
gate, 
The flaming brand is passed. 

The lurid glow falls strong across 
Dark faces broad with smiles : 

Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss 
That fire yon blazing piles. 



232 



PARNASSUS. 



With oar-strokes timing to their song, 
They weave in simple lays 

The pathos of remembered wrong, 
The hope of better days, — 

The triumph-note that Miriam sung, 
The joy of uncaged birds : 

Softening with Afric's mellow tongue 
Their broken Saxon words. 

SONG OF THE NEGKO BOATMEN. 

O, praise an' tanks ! De Lord he 
come 
To set de people free ; 
An' massa tink it day ob doom. 

An' we ob jubilee. 
De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves 

He jus' as 'trong as den; 
He say de word: we las' night 
slaves ; 
To-day, de Lord's freemen. 
De yam will grow, de cotton 
blow. 
We'll hab de rice an' corn; 
O nebber you fear, if nebber you 
hear 
De driver blow his horn ! 

Ole massa on he trabbels gone ; 

He leaf de land behind : 
De Lord's breff blow him furder on. 

Like corn-shuck in de wind. 
We own de hoe, we own de plough. 

We own de hands dat hold ; 
We sell de pig, we sell de cow, 
But nebber chile be sold. 
De yam will grow, de cotton 
blow. 
We'll hab de rice an' corn: 
O nebber you fear, if nebber you 
hear 
De driver blow his horn ! 

We pray de Lord : he gib us signs 

Dat some day we be free ; 
De norf-wind tell it to de pines, 

De wild-duck to de sea ; 
We tink it when de church-bell ring. 

We dream it in de dream ; 
Pe rice-bird mean it when he sing, 
De eagle when he scream. 
De yam will grow, de cotton 
blow. 
We'll hab de rice an' corn: 
O nebber you fear, if nebber you 
hear 
De driver blow his horn ! 



We know de promise nebber fail, 

An' nebber lie de word ; 
So like de 'postles in de jail. 

We waited for de Lord : 
An' now he open ebery door, 

An' 'trow away de key ; 
He tink we lub him so before, 
We lub him better free. 
De yam will grow, de cotton 
blow, 
He'll gib de rice an' corn : 
O nebber you fear, if nebber you 
hear 
De driver blow his horn ! 

So sing our dusky gondoliers ; 

And with a secret pain, 
And smiles that seem akin to tears, 

We hear the wild refrain. 

We dare not share the negro's trust. 

Nor yet his hope deny : 
We only know that God is just, 

And every wrong shall die. 

Rude seems the song ; each swarthy 
face. 

Flame-lighted, ruder still : 
We start to think that hapless race 

Must shape our good or ill ; 

That laws of changeless justice bind 
Oppressor with oppressed ; 

And, close as sin and suffering joined. 
We march to Fate abreast. 

Sing on, poor hearts! your chant 
shall be 
Our sign of blight or bloom, — 
The Vala-song of Liberty, 
Or death-rune of our doom I 

Whittier. 



NEVER OR NOW. 

In vain the common theme my 
tongue would shun, 

All tongues, all thoughts, all hearts 
can find but one. 

Our alcoves, where the noisy world 
was dumb. 

Throb with dull drum-beats, and the 
echoes come 

Laden with sounds of battle and wild 
cries, 

That mingle their discordant sym- 
phonies. 



HEROIC. 



233 



Old books from yonder shelves are 

whispering, " Peace ! 
Tliis is tlie realm of letters, not of 

strife." 
Old graves in yonder field are say- 
ing, "Cease! 
Hicjacct ends tlie noisiest mortal's 

life." 
— Slnit your old books ! Wliat says 

the telegraph? 
We want an Extra, not an epitaph. 
Old Classmates, (Time's unconscious 

almanacs, 
Counting the years we leave behind 

our backs, 
And wearing them in wrinkles on 

the brow 
Of friendship witli his kind " How 

are you noio .?") 
Take us by the hand, and speak of 

times that were. — 
Then comes a moment's pause: 

" Pray tell me where 
Your boy is now! Wounded, as I 

am told." — 
"Twenty?" "Wliat — bless me! 

twenty-one years old!" 
"Yes, — time moves fast." "That's 

so. Old classmate, say, 
Do you remember our Commence- 
ment Day ? 
Were we such boys as these at 

twenty?" Nay, 
God called them to a nobler task 

than ours. 
And gave them holier thoughts and 

manlier powers, — 
This is the day of fruits and not of 

flowers ! 
These "boys" we talk about like 

ancient sages 
Are the same men we read of in old 

pages, — 
The bronze recast of dead heroic 

ages! 
We grudge them not, — our dearest, 

bravest, best, — 
ILet but tlie quarrel's issue stand 

confest : 
'Tis Earth's old slave-God battling 

for his crown, 
And Freedom fighting with her visor 

down ! 

Petter tlie jagged shells their flesh 

should mangle, — 
Better their bones from Rahab-necks 

should dangle, 



Better the fairest flower of all our 

culture 
Should cram the black maw of the 

Southern vulture. 
Than Cain act o'er the murder of his 

brother 
Unum on our side — pluribus on the 

other ! 
Each of us owes the rest his best 

endeavor ; 
Take these few lines, — we call them 

NOVr OK NEVER. 

Listen, young heroes ! your country 
is calling! 
Time strikes the hour for the brave 
and the true ! 
Now, while the foremost are fighting 
and falling. 
Fill up the ranks that have opened 
for you ! 

You whom the fathers made free 
and defended. 
Stain not the scroll that emblazons 
their fame ! 
You whose fair heritage spotless de- 
scended, 
Leave not your children a birth- 
right of shame ! 

Stay not for questions while Freedom 
stands gasping! 
Wait not till Honor lies wrapped 
in his pall! 
Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the 
hands' clasping. — 
" Off for the wars " is enough for 
them all ! 

Break from the arms that would 
fondly caress you ! 
Hark! 'tis the bugle blast! sabres 
are drawn ! 
Mothers shall pray for you, fathers 
shall bless you, 
Maidens shall weep for you when 
you are gone ! 

Never or now ! cries the blood of a 
nation 
Poured on the turf where the red 
rose should bloom ; 
Now is the day and the hour of sal- 
vation ; 
Never or now ! peals the trumpet 
of doom I 



234 



PAIINASSUS. 



Never or now! roars the hoarse- 
throated cannon 
Through the black canopy blotting 
the skies ; 
Never or now ! flaps the shell-blasted 
pennon 
O'er the deep ooze where the Cum- 
berland lies ! 

From the foul dens where our 
brothers are dying, 
Aliens and foes in the land of their 
birth, 
From the rank swamps where our 
martyrs are lying 
Pleading in vain for a handful of 
earth ; 

From the hot plains where they 
perish outnumbered, 
Furrowed and ridged by the bat- 
tle-field's plough, 
Comes the loud summons ; too long 
you have slumbered. 
Hear the last Angel-trump — Never 
or Now ! 

O. W. Holmes. 



MASON AND SLIDELL : A YAN- 
KEE IDYLL. 

CONCORD BRIDGE. 

Hearken in your ear, — 

I'm older'n you, — Peace wun't keep 

house with Fear : 
Ef you want peace, the thing you've 

gut to du 
Is jes' to show you're up to fightin', 

tu. 
I recollect how sailors' rights was 

won 
Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip 

kissin' gun: 
Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up 

thet he 
Hed gut a kind o' mortgage on the 

sea; 
You'd thought he held by Gran'ther 

Adam's will, 
An' ef you knuckle down, Ae'll think 

so still. 
Better thet all our ships an' all their 

crews 
Should sink to rot in ocean's dream- 
less ooze. 



Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it 

went. 
An' each dumb gun a brave man's 

moniment. 
Than seek sech peace ez only cowards 

crave : 
Give me the peace of dead men or of 

brave ! 

THE MONIMENT. 

I say, ole boy, it ain't the Glorious 

Fourth : 
You'd oughto larned 'fore this wut 

talk wuz worth. 
It ain't om- nose thet gits put out o' 

jint; 
It's England thet gives up her dear- 
est pint. 
We've gut, I tell ye now, enough to 

du 
In our own fem'ly fight, afore we're 

thru. 
I hoped, las' spring, jest arter Sum- 
ter's shame. 
When every flagstaff flapped its 

tethered flame, 
An' all the people, startled from their 

doubt. 
Come must'rin' to the flag with sech 

a shout, — 
I hoped to see things settled 'fore 

this fall. 
The Rebbles licked, Jeff Davis 

hanged, an' all ; 
Then come Bull Eun, an' sence then 

I've ben waitin' 
Like boys in Jennooary thaw for 

skatin', 
Nothin' to du but watch my shad- 

der's trace 
Swing, like a ship at anchor, roun' 

my base. 
With daylight's flood an' ebb: it's 

gitting slow. 
An' I 'most think we'd better let 'em 

go- 
I tell ye wut, this war's agoin to 
cost — 

THE BRIDGE. 

An' I tell you it wun't be money 

lost ; 
We wun't give up afore the ship goes 

down : 
It's a stiff gale, but Providence wun't 

drown ; 



HEROIC. 



235 



All' God wun't leave us yit to sink 

or swim, 
Ef we don't fail to du wut's right by 

him. 
This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to 

be 
A better country than man ever 

see. 
I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry 
Tliet seems to say, "Break forth an' 

prophesy!" 

strange jS'ew World, thet yit wast 

never young, 
■Wliose youth from thee by gripin' 

need was wrung. 
Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose 

baby-bed 
Was prowled roun' by the Injuns' 

cracklin' tread. 
An' who grew' St strong thru shifts 

an' wants an' pains, 
Nussed by stern men with empires 

in their brains. 
Who saw in vision their young Ish- 

mel strain 
With each hard hand a vassal ocean's 

mane, 
Thou, skilled by Freedom an' bygret 

events 
To pitch new States ez Old-World 

men pitch tents. 
Thou, taught by Fate to know Jeho- 
vah' s plan, 
Thet man's devices can't unmake a 

man, 
An' whose free latch-string never 

was drawed in 
Against the poorest child of Adam's 

kin, — 
The grave's not dug where traitor 

hands shall lay 
In fearful haste thy murdered corse 

away ! 

1 see — 

Jest here some dogs begun to 
bark. 

So thet I lost old Concord's last re- 
mark : 

I listened long; but all I seemed to 
hear 

Was dead leaves goss'piu' on some 
birch-trees near ; 

But ez theyhedn't no gret things to 
say, 

An' sed 'em often, I come right 
away, 

A.n', walkin' home'ards, jest to pass 
the time. 



I put some thoughts thet bothered 

me in rhyme : 
I hain't hed time to fairly try 'em on, 
But here they be — it's — 



JONATHAN TO JOHN. 

It don't seem hardly right, John, 
When both my hands was full, 
To stump me to a fight, John, 
Your cousin, tu, John Bull ! 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
We know it now," sez he, 
" The lion's paw is all the law, 
Accordin' to J. B., 
Thet's fit for you an' me ! " 

Blood ain't so cool as ink, John; 

It's likely you'd ha' wrote, 
An' stopped a spell to think, John, 
Arter they'd cut your throat? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
He'd skurce ha' stopped, "sez he, 
" To mind his p's an' q's ef thet 

weasan' 
He'd b' longed to ole J. B., 
Instid o' you au' me ! " 

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John, 

On your front-parlor stairs, 
Would it jest meet yovir views, John, 
To wait an' sue their heirs ? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
I on'y guess," sez he, 
"Thet, ef Vattellon his toes 

fell, 
'Twould kind o' rile J. B., 
Ez wal ez you and me ! " 

Who made the law thet hurts, John, 

Heads I win — ditto, tails? 
"t7. -B." was on his shirts, John, 
Onless my memory fails. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
(I'm good at thet,") sez he, 
" Thet sauce for goose ain't jest 

the juice 
For ganders with J. B., 
No more than you or me ! " 

When your rights was our wrong, 
John, 
You didn't stop for fuss, — 
Britanny's trident-prongs, John, 
Was good 'nough law for us. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess. 
Though physic's good," sez he, 



236 



PARNASSUS. 



" It doesn't f oiler thet he can 

swaller 
Prescriptions signed ' J. B.^ 
Put vip by you an' me ! " 

We own the ocean, tu, John : 

You mus'n' take it hard, 
Ef we can't think with you, John, 
It's jest your own back-yard. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, 
Ef theVs his claim," sez he, 
" The fencin' -stuff' 11 cost enough 
To bust up friend J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

Why talk so dreffle big, John, 

Of honor, when it meant 
You didn't care a fig, John, 
But jest for ten per cent ? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess. 
He's like the rest," sez he: 
"When all is done, it's number 

one 
Thet's nearest to J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me!" 

We give the critters back, John, 

Coz Abra'm thought 'twas right; 
It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, 
Provokin' us to fight. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
We've a hard row," sez he, 
"To hoe just now: but thet, 

somehow, 
May happen to J. B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

We ain't so weak an' poor, John, 

With twenty million people. 
An' close to every door, John, 
A school-house an' a steeple. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
It is a fact," sez he, 
" The surest plan to make a Man 
Is, Think him so, J. B., 
Ez much ez you or me ! " 

Our folks believe in Law, John : 

An' it's for her sake, now. 
They've left the axe an' saw, John, 
The anvil an' the plough. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess. 
Eft warn't for law," sez he, 
"There'd be one shindy from 

here to Indy ; 
An' thet don't suit J. B., 
(When 'tain't 'twixt you an' 
me! "J 



We know we've gut a cause, John, 

Thet's honest, just, an' true; 
We thought 'twould win applause, 
John, 
Ef nowheres else, from you. 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess 
His love of right," sez he, 
" Hangs by a rotten fibre o'cotton; 
There's natur' in J. B,, 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

The South says, " Poor folks doion!" 
John, 
An' " All men up ! " say we, — 
White, yaller, black, an' brown.John : 
Now which is your idee ? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, 
John preaches wal," sez he: 
" But, sermon thru, an' come to 

du, 
Wliy, there's the ole J. B. 
A-crowdin' you an' me ! " 

Shall it be love or hate, John? 

It's you thet's to decide: 
Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, 
Like all the world's beside? 
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess 
Wise men forgive," sez he, 
"But not forget; an' sometime 

yet 
The truth may strike J, B., 
Ez wal ez you an' me ! " 

God means to make this land, John, 

Clear thru, from sea to sea, 
Believe an' understand, John, 
The loutli o' bein' free. 
Ole Uncle S, sez he, " I guess, 
God's price is high," sez he: 
" But nothin' else than wut he 

sells 
Wears long, an' thet J. B. 
May larn like you an' me ! " 
J. K. Lowell : Mason and Slidell. 



THE FLAG. 

Theke's a flag hangs over my 

threshold, whose folds are 

more dear to me 
Than the blood that thrills in my 

bosom its earnest of liberty ; 
And dear are the stars it harbors in 

its sunny field of blue 
As the hope of a further heaven that 

lights all our dim lives through. 



HEROIC. 



237 



But now should my guests be merry, 
the house is in holiday guise, 

Looking out, through its burnished 
windows like a score of wel- 
coming eyes. 

Come hither, my brothers who wan- 
der in saintliness and in sin! 

Come hither, ye pilgrims of Nature! 
my heart doth invite you in. 

My wine is not of the choicest, yet 

bears it an honest brand ; 
And the bread that I bid you lighten 

I break with no sparing hand ; 
But pause, ere you pass to taste it, 

one act must accomplished be : 
Salute the flag in its virtue, before 

ye sit down with me. 

The flag of our stately battles, not 
struggles of wrath and greed : 

Its stripes were a holy lesson, its 
spangles a deathless creed ; 

'Twas red with the blood of free- 
men, and white with the fear 
of the foe, 

And the stars that fight in their 
courses 'gainst tyrants its 
symbols know. 

Come hither, thou son of my moth- 
er! we were reared in the 
selfsame arms ; 

Thou hast many a pleasant gesture, 
thy mind hath its gifts and 
charms , 

But my heart is as stern to question 
as mine eyes are of sorrows 
full : 

Salute the flag in its virtue, or pass 
on where others rule. 

Thou lord of a tliousand acres, with 

heaps of uncounted gold, 
The steeds of thy stall are haughty, 

thy lackeys cunning and bold : 
I envy no jot of thy splendor, I rail 

at thy follies none : 
Salute the flag in its virtue, or leave 

my poor house alone. 

Fair lady witli silken trappings, higli 
waving thy stainless plume. 

We welcome thee to our numbers, a 
flower of costliest bloom : 

Let a hundred maids live widowed 
to furnish thy bridal bed ; 

But pause where the flag doth ques- 
tion, and bend thy triumphant 
head. 



Take down now your flaunting ban- 
ner, for a scout comes breath- 
less and pale. 

With the terror of death upon him ; 
of failure is all his tale : 

" They have fled while the flag 
waved o'er them! they have 
turned to the foe their back ! 

They are scattered, pursued, and 
slaughtered ! the fields are all 
rout and wrack!" 

Pass hence, then, the friends I gath- 
ered, a goodly company ! 

All ye that have manhood in you, 
go, perish for Liberty ! 

But I and the babes God gave 
me will wait with uplifted 
hearts, 

With the firm smile ready to kindle, 
and the will to perform our 
parts. 

When the last true heart lies blood- 
less, when the fierce and the 
false have won, 

I'll press in turn to my bosom each 
daughter and either son ; 

Bid them loose the flag from its 
bearings, and we'll lay us 
down to rest 

With the glory of home about us, 
and its freedom locked in our 
breast. 

JxjxiA Wakd Howe. 



THE WASHERS OF THE 
SHROUD. 

Along a river-side, I know not 
where, 

I walked one night in mystery of 
dream ; 

A chill creeps curdling yet beneath 
my hair, 

To think what chanced me by the pal- 
lid gleam 

Of a moor- wraith that waned through 
haunted air. 

Pale fire-flies pulsed within the mead- 
ow mist 

Their halos, wavering thistle-downs 
of light; 

The loon, that seemed to mock some 
goblin tryst, 



238 



PAENASSTJS. 



Laughed ; and the echoes, huddling 

in affright, 
Like Odin's hounds, fled haying 

down the night. 

Then all was silent, till there smote 

my ear 
A movement in the stream that 

checked my breath : 
Was it the slow plash of a wading 

deer? 
But something said, " This water is 

of Death! 
The Sisters wash a Shroud, — ill 

thing to hear ! " 

I, looking then, beheld the ancient 

Three, 
Known to the Greek's and to the 

Norseman's creed. 
That sit in shadow of the mystic 

Tree, 
Still crooning, as they weave their 

endless brede, 
One song: "Time was, Time is, and 

Time shall be." 

No wrinkled crones were they, as I 
had deemed. 

But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-mor- 
row. 

To mourner, lover, poet, ever 
seemed : 

Something too high for joy, too deep 
for sorrow. 

Thrilled in their tones, and from 
their faces gleamed. 

" Still men and nations reap as they 

have strawn;" 
So sang they, working at their task 

the while ; 
" The fatal raiment must be cleansed 

ere dawn ; 
For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's 

Isle? 
O'er what quenched grandeur must 

our shroud be drawn ? 

*' Or is it for a younger, fairer 
corse. 

That gathered States for children 
round his knees. 

That tamed tlie wave to be his post- 
ing-horse. 

Feller of forests, linker of the seas, 

Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest 
son of Thor's? 



"What make we, murmur' st thou, 

and what are we ? 
When empires must be wound, we 

bring the shroud. 
The time-old web of the implacable 

Three : 
Is it too coarse for him, the young 

and proud ? 
Earth's mightiest deigned to wear 

it; why not he?" 

"Is there no hope?" I moaned. 

"So strong, so fair! 
Our Fowler, whose proud bird would 

brook erewhiie 
No rival's swoop in all our western 

air! 
Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file 
For him, life's morn-gold bright yet 

in his hair! 

"Leave me not hopeless, ye unpity- 
ing dames ! 

I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who 
scanned 

The stars. Earth's elders, still must 
noblest aims 

Be traced upon oblivious ocean- 
sands ? 

Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts 
of names?" 

"When grass-blades stiffen with red 

battle-dew. 
Ye deem we choose the victor and 

the slain : 
Say, choose we them that shall be 

leal and true 
To the heart's longing, the high 

faith of brain ? 
Yet there tlie victory lies, if ye but 

knew. 

"Three roots bear up dominion; 

Knowledge, Will; 
These twain are strong, but stronger 

yet the third — 
Obedience, 'tis the great tap-root, 

that still, 
Knit round the rock of Duty, is not 

stirred. 
Though Heaven - loosed tempests 

spend their utmost skill. 

"Is the doom sealed for Hesper? 

'Tis not we 
Denounce it, but the Law before all 

time : 



HEROIC. 



239 



The brave makes danger opportu- 
nity; 

The waverer, paltering with the 
chance sublime, 

Dwarfs it to peril : wliicli shall Hes- 
per be '? 

" Hath he let vultures climb liis 

eagle's seat, 
To make Jove's bolts purveyors of 

their maw ? 
Hath he the Many's plaudits found 

more sweet 
Than Wisdom? held Opinion's wind 

for Law ? 
Then let liim hearken for the doom- 

ster'sfeet! 

" Rough are the steps, slow-hewn in 

flintiest rock. 
States climb to power by; slippery 

'those with gold, 
Down which they stumble to eternal 

mock ; 
No chafferer's hand shall long the 

sceptre hold, ' 
Who, given a Fate to shape, would 

sell the block. 

"We sing old sagas, songs of weal 
and woe, 

Mystic because too cheaply under- 
stood ; 

Darli sayings are not ours ; men hear 
and know, 

See Evil weak ; see strength alone in 
Good, 

Yet hope to stem God's fire with 
walls of tow. 

"Time Was unlocks the riddle of 

Time Is, 
That offers choice of glory or of 

gloom ; 
The solver makes Time Shall Be 

surely his. 
But hasten. Sisters! for even now 

the tomb 
Grates its slow hinge, and calls from 

the abyss." 

"But not for him," I cried, "not 

yet for him. 
Whose large horizon, westering, star 

by star 
Wins from the void to where ou 

Ocean's rim 



The sunset shuts the world with 

golden bar — 
Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye 

grow dim ! 

"His shall be larger manhood, saved 

for those 
That walk unblenching through the 

trial-fires ; 
Not suffering, but faint heart, is 

worst of woes. 
And he no base-born son of craven 

sires. 
Whose eye need blench, confronted 

with his foes. 

" Tears may be ours, but proud, for 

those who win 
Death's royal purple in the foeman's 

lines : 
Peace, too, brings tears, and 'mid the 

battle-din. 
The wiser ear some text of God 

divines ; 
For the sheathed blade may rust 

with darker sin. 

"God, give us peace! not such as 

lulls to sleep, 
But sword on thigh, and brow with 

purpose knit ! 
And let our Ship of State to harbor 

sweep. 
Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns 

lit. 
And her leashed thunders gathering 

for their leap!" 

So cried I, with clinched hands and 
passionate pain. 

Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's 
side: 

Again the loon laughed, mocking, 
and again 

The echoes bayed far down the 
night, and died. 

While waking, I recalled my wan- 
dering brain. 

J. R. Lowell. 



THE CUMBERLAND. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 
Ou board of the Cumberland, 

sloop-of-war ; 
And at times from the fortress across 

the bay 



240 



PARNASSUS, 



The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 

Then far away to the south uprose 
A little feather of snow-white 
smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of 
our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; 
Then comes a pufE of smoke fi'om 
her guns. 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her 
straight 
Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of 
slate, 
Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, 
In his arrogant old plantation 
strain. 
"Never!" our gallant Morris re- 
plies : 
"It is better to sink than to 

yield!" 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 

Then, like a kraken huge and black. 
She crushed our ribs in her iron 



grasp 



Down went the Cumberland all a 
wrack. 
With a sudden shudder of death, 
And the cannon's breath 
For her dying gasp. 

Next mom, as the sun rose over the 
bay. 
Still floated our flag at the mam- 
mast-head. 
Jjord, how beautiful was thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 



Ho ! brave hearts that went down in 
the seas ! 
Ye are at peace in the troubled 
stream. 
Ho! brave land! with hearts like 
these. 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain. 
Shall be one again. 
And without a seam ! 

Longfellow. 



SUNTHIN IN A PASTORAL 
LINE. 

Once git a smell o' musk into a 

draw. 
An' it clings hold like precerdents in 

law: 
Your gra'ma'am put it there, — 

when, goodness knows, — 
To jes' this-worldify her Sunday- 

clo'es; 
But the old chist wun't sarve her 

gran' son's wife, 
(For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut 

good in life ?) 
An' so ole clawfoot, from the pre- 

cinks dread 
O' the spare chamber, slinks into 

the shed. 
Where, dim with dust, it fust or last 

subsides 
To holdin' seeds, an' fifty things be- 
sides ; 
But better days stick fast in heart 

an' husk. 
An' all you keep in't gits a scent o' 

musk. 

Jes' so with poets: wut they've 

airly read 
Gits kind o' worked into their heart 

an' head, 
So's't they can't seem to write but 

jest on sheers 
With furrin countries or played-out 

ideers. 
Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't 

smack 
O' wut some critter chose to feel 

'way back: 
This makes 'em talk o' daises, larks, 

an' things, 
Ez though we'd nothin' here that 

blows an' sings, — 
(Why, I'd give more for one live 

bobolink 



HEROIC. 



241 



Than a square mile o' larks in print- 
er's iulv,) — 

This malces 'em think our fust 'o 
May is May, 

Whiclrt ain't, for all the almauicks 
can say. 

O little city-gals ! don't never go it 

Blind on the word o' noospaper or 
poet ! 

They're apt to puff, an' May-day 
seldom looks 

Up in the country ez it doos in 
books ; 

They're no more like than hornets' 
nests an' hives, 

Or printed sarmous be to holy lives. 

I, with my trouses perched on cow- 
hide boots, 

Tuggin' my foundered feet out by 
the roots, 

Hev seen ye come to fling on April's 
hearse 

Your muslin nosegays from the 
milliner's, 

Puzzlin' to find dry ground your 
queen to choose, 

An' dance your throats sore in mo- 
rocker shoes : 

I've seen ye, an' felt i^roud, thet, 
come wut would. 

Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with 
hardihood. 

Pleasure doos make us Yankees 
kind o' winch, 

Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by 
the inch ; 

But yit we du contrive to worry 
thru, 

Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to 
du, 

An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set 
out, 

Ez stiddily ez though 'twuz a re- 
doubt. 

I, country-born an' bred, know 
where to find 

Some blooms thet make the season 
suit the mind. 

An' seem to metch the doubtin' 
bluebird's notes, — 

Half-vent' rin' liverworts in furry 
coats, 

Ploodroots, Avhose roUed-up leaves 
ef you oncurl. 

Each on 'em's cradle to a baby- 
pearl, — 

16 



But these are jes' Spring's pickets; 

sure ez sin, 
The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em 

in; 
For half our May's so awfully like 

Mayn't, 
'T would rile a Shaker or an evrige 

saint ; 
Though I own up I like our back'ard 

springs 
Thet kind o' haggle with their 

greens an' things, 
An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout 

more words 
Toss the fields full o' blossoms, 

leaves, an' birds : 
Thet's Northun natur', slow, an' apt 

to doubt. 
But when it doos git stirred, ther's 

no gin-out ! 

Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' 
in tall trees, 

An' settlin' things in windy Con- 
gresses, — 

Queer politicians, though, for I'll be 
skinned 

Ef all on 'em don't head against the 
wind. 

'Fore long the trees begin to show 
belief, — 

The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, 

Then saffern swarms swing off from 
all the willers 

So plump they look like yaller cater- 
pillars, 

Then gray hoss-ches'nuts leetle 
hands unfold 

Softer'n a baby's be at three days 
old: 

Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; 
he knows 

Thet arter this ther's only blossom- 
snows ; 

So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' 
spouse, 

He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. 

Then seems to come a hitch, — 

things lag behind. 
Till some finemornin' Spring makes 

up her mind. 
An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers 

cresh their dams 
Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in 

an' jams, 
A leak comes spirtin' thru some 

pin-hole cleft, 



242 



PARNASSUS. 



Grows stronger, fercer, tears out 

right an' left, 
Tten all' the waters bow themselves 

an' come, 
Suddin, in one great slope o' shed- 

derin' foam, 
Jes' so our Spring gits every thin' in 

tune, 
An' gives one leap from April into 

June : 
Then all comes crowdin' in; afore 

you think, 
Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill 

woods with pink ; 
The cat-bird in the laylock-bush is 

loud ; 
The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy 

cloud ; 
Eled-cedars blossom tu, though few 

folks know it, 
A.n' look all dipt in sunshine like a 

poet; 
The lime-trees pile their solid stacks 

o' shade. 
An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' 

sweet trade ; 
In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hang- 
bird clings 
An' for the summer vy'ge his ham- 
mock slings : 
All down the loose-walled lanes 

in archin' bowers 
The barb'ry droops its strings o' 

golden flowers. 
Whose shrinkin' hearts the school- 
gals love to try 
With pins, — they'll .worry yourn so, 

boys, bimeby ! 
But I don't love your cat'Iogue style, 

— do you ? — 
Ez ef to sell off Katur' by vendoo ; 
One word with blood in't's ez twice 

ez good ez two : 
'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet 

o' the year, 
Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is 

here ; 
Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he 

swings. 
Or climbs aginst the breeze with 

quiverin' wings. 
Or, givin' way to't in a mock de- 
spair. 
Runs down, a brook o' laughter, 

thru the air. 
I ollus feel the sap start in my veins 
In Spring, with curus heats an' 

prickly pains, 



Thet drive me, when I git a chance, 

to walk 
Off by myself to hev a privit talk 
With a queer critter thet can't seem 

to 'gree 
Along o' me like most folks, — Mis- 
ter Me. 
Ther' is times when I'm unsoshle ez 

a stone, 
An' sort o' suffocate to be alone, — 
I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks 

are nigh. 
An' can't bear nothin' closer than 

the sky ; 
Now the wind's full ez shifty in the 

mind 
Ez wut it is ou' -doors, ef I ain't 

blind, 
An, sometimes, in the faii'est sou'- 

west weather. 
My inward vane pints east for weeks 

together, 
My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' 

my sins 
Come drizzlin' on my conscience 

sharp ez pins : 
Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' 

sight. 
An' take it out in a fair stan' up fight 
With the one cuss I can't lay on the 

shelf. 
The crook'dest stick in all the 

heap, — myself. 

'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'- 

time: 
Findin' myfeelin's wouldn't noways 

rhyme 
With nobody's, but off the hendle 

flew 
An' took things from an east-wind 

pint o' view, 
I started off to lose me in the hills 
Where the pines be, up back o' 

Slab's Mills: 
Pines, ef you're blue, are the best 

friends I know. 
They mope an' sigh an' sheer your 

feelin's so, — 
They hesh the ground beneath so, 

tu, I swan, 
You half-forgit you've gut a body on. 
Ther's a small skool'us' there where 

four roads meet. 
The door-steps hollered out by little 

feet, 
An' side-post carved with names 

whose owners grew 



HEROIC. 



243 



To gret men, some on 'em an' dea- 
cons, tii; 
'Tain't used no longer, coz the town 

hez gut 
A high-school, where they teach the 

Lord knows wut : 
Three-story larnin's pop'lar now; I 

guess 
We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories 

less. 
For it strikes me ther's sech a 

thing ez sinnin' 
By overloadin' children's underpin- 

niu' : 
Wal, here it wuz I larned my A, B, C, 
An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with 

me. 

We're curus crittiers: Now ain't jes' 

the minute 
That ever fits us easy while we're 

in it; 
Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be 

perfect bliss, — 
Soon ez it's past, thet time's wuth 

ten o' this ; 
An' yit there ain't a man thet need 

be told 
Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs 

o' gold, 
A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' 

plan 
An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to 

be a man ; 
Now, gittin' gray, there's no thin' I 

enjoy 
Like dreamin' back along into a 

boy: 
So the ole school' us' is a place I 

choose 
Afore all others, ef I want to muse ; 
I set down where I used to set, an' 

git 
My boyhood back, an' better things 

with it, — 
Faith, Hope, an' sunthin', ef it isn't 

Cherrity, 
It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret 

a rerrity. 

Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath 

arternoon 
Thet I sot out to tramp myself in 

tune, 
I found me in the school'us' on my 

seat, 
Drummin' the march to No-wheres 

with my feet. 



Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole 

folks say, 
Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way : 
It's thinkin' every thin' you ever 

knew. 
Or ever hearn, to make your feelins 

blue. 
I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell : 
I thought o' the Rebellion, then o' 

Hell, 
Which some folks tell ye now is jes' 

a metterfor, 
(A the'ry, p'raps, it wun'i feel none 

the better for) ; 
I thought o' Reconstruction, wut 

we'd win 
Patchin' our patent self-blow-up 

agin: 
I thought ef this 'ere milkin' o' the 

wits, 
So much a month, warn't givin' 

Natur' fits, — 
Ef folks warn't druv, findin' their 

own milk fail. 
To work the cow thet hes an iron tail, 
An' ef idees 'thout ripenin' in the 

pan 
Would send up cream to humor ary 

man: 
From this to thet I let my worryin' 

creep, 
Till finally I must ha' fell asleep. 

Our lives in sleep are some like 

streams thet glide 
'Twixt flesh an' sperrit bouudin' on 

each side, 
Wliere both shores' shadders kind 

o' mix an' mingle 
In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either 

single ; 
An' when you cast off moorin's 

from To-day, 
An' down towards To-morrer drift 

away, 
The imiges thet tengle on the stream 
Make a new upside-down' ard world 

o' dream : 
Sometimes they seem like sunrise- 
streaks an' warnin's 
O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath- 

mornin's. 
An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' 

spite, 
Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't 

gone right. 
I'm gret on dreams, an' often, when 

I wake, 



244 



PARNASSUS. 



I've lived so mucli it makes my 

mem'ry ache, 
An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in 

my cheer 
'Thout hevin' 'em, some good, some 

bad, all queer. 

Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it 

seemed. 
An' ain't sure yit whether I r'ally 

dreamed. 
Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' 

slep'. 
When I hearn some un stompin' up 

the step. 
An' lookin' round, ef two an' two 

make four, 
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door. 
He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' 

spurs 
With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut- 

burrs. 
An' his gret sword behind him sloped 

away 
Long'z a man's speech thet dunno 

wut to say. — 
"Ef your name's Biglow, an' your 

given-name 
Hosee," sez he, "it's arter you I 

came; 
I'm your gret-gran'ther multiplied 

by three." — 
"My loutf^ sez I. — "Your gret- 

gret-gret," sez he: 
"You wouldn't ha' never ben here 

but for me. 
Two hundred an' three year ago this 

May 
The ship I come in sailed up Boston 

Bay; 
I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War, — 
But wut on airth hev you gut up 

one for ? 
Coz we du things in England, 'tain't 

for you 
To git a notion you can du 'em tu : 
I'm told you write in public prints: 

ef true. 
It's nateral you should know a thing 

or two." — 
*Thet air's an argymunt I can't 

endorse, — 
'Twould prove, coz you wear spurs, 

you kep' a horse : 
For brains," sez I, " wutever you 

may think, 
Ain't boun' to cash the drafs o' pen- 

an'-ink, — 



Though mos' folks write ez ef they 

hoped jes' quickenin' 
The churn would argoo skim-milk 

into thickenin' ; 
But skim-milk ain't a thing to 

change its view 
O' wut it's meant for more'n a smoky 

flue. 
But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder 

go, 
How in all Natur' did you come to 

know 
'Bout our affairs," sez I, "in King- 
dom Come?" — 
"Wal, I worked round at sperrit- 

rappin' some. 
An' danced the tables till their legs 

wuz gone, 
In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' 

on," 
Sez he, "but mejums lie so like all- 
split 
Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. 
But, come now, ef you wun't con- 
fess to knowin'. 
You've some conjectures how the 

thing's a-goin'. " — 
" Gran'ther," sez I, "a vane warn't 

never known 
Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its 

own; 
An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the 

jints. 
It's safe to trust its say on certin 

pints : 
It knows the wind's opinions to a T, 
An' the wind settles wut the 

weather' 11 be." 
"I never thought a scion of our 

stock 
Could grow the wood to make a 

weathercock ; 
Wlien I wuz younger'n you, skurce 

more'n a shaver, 
No airthly wind," sez he, "could 

make me waver!" 
(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw 

an' forehead, 
Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword- 
hilt f orrard. ) — 
" Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, 

" I swow, 
Wlien I wuz younger'n what you 

see me now, — 
Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's 

bonnet, 
Thet I warn't full-cocked with my 

jedgment on it ; 



HEROIC. 



245 



But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find 
It's a sight harder to malve up my 

mind, — 
Nor I don't often try tu, when 

events 
Will du it for me free of all expense. 
The moral question's oUus plain 

enough, — 
It's jes' the liuman-natur' side thet's 

tough ; 
Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle 

me nor you, — 
The pinch comes in decldiu' wut to 

dii ; 
Ef you read History, all runs 

smooth ez grease, 
Coz there the men ain't nothin' 

more'n idees, — 
But come to make it, ez we must to- 
day, 
Th' idees hev arms an' legs, an' stop 

the way : 
It's easy fixin' things in facts an' 

figgers, — 
They can't resist, nor warn't 

brought up with niggers ; 
But come to try your the'ry on, — 

why, then 
Your facts an' figgers change to 

ign'ant men 
Actin' ez ugly" — "Smite 'em hip 

an' thigh!" 
Sez gran'ther, "an' let every man- 
child die ! 
Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' 

the Lord I 
Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind 

the sword !" — 
"Thetkindo' thing worked wal in 

ole Judee, 
But you forgit how long it's ben 

A.D.; 
You think thet's ellerkence, — I 

call it shoddy, 
A thing," sez I, " wun't cover soul 

nor body ; 
I like the plain all-wool o' common- 
sense, 
Thet warms ye now, an' will a 

twelvemonth hence. 
Yon took to follerin' where the 

Prophets beckoned. 
An,' fust you knowed on, back come 

Cliarles the Second ; 
Now wut I want's to hev all we gain 

stick, 
An' not to start Millennium too 

quick ; 



We hain't to punish only, but to 

keep, 
An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry 

deep." 
"Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best 

o' glue," 
Sez he, " an' so you'll find before 

you're thru; 
Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly- 
shally 
Lozes ez often wut's ten times the 

vally. 
Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's 

neck gut split. 
Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over 

yit: 
Slav'ry's your Charles, the Lord hez 

gin the exe" — 
"Our Charles," sez I, " hez gut 

eiglit million necks. 
The hardest question ain't the black 

man's right, 
The trouble is to 'mancipate the 

white ; 
One's chained in body an' can be sot 

free. 
But t' other's chained in soul to an 

idee : 
It's a long job, but we shall worry 

thru it ; 
Ef bag'nets fail, the spellin'-book 

must du it." 
"Hosee," sez he, "I think you're 

goin' to fail : 
The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in 

the tail ; 
This 'ere rebellion's nothin' but the 

rettle, — 
You'll stomp on thet an' think 

you've won the bettle; 
It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' 

thinkin' head, 
An' ef you want selvation, cresh it 

dead, — 
An' cresh it suddln, or you'll larn 

by waitin' 
Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to 

debatni' ! — 
"God's truth!" sez I, — "an' ef I 

held the club, 
An' knowed jes' where to strike, — 

but there's the rub ! " — 
" Strike soon," sez he, "or you'll be 

deadly ailin', — 
Folks thet's af eared to fail are sure 

o' failin' ; 
God hates your sneakin' creturs thet 

believe 



246 



PARNASSUS. 



He'll settle things they run away an' 

leave ! " 
He brought his foot down fercely, 

ez he spoke, 
An' give me sech a startle thet I 

woke. 
J. E. Lowell : Biglow Papers. 



WHAT THE BIEDS SAID. 

The birds, against the April wind, 
Flew northward, singing as they 

flew; 
They sang, "The land we leave 

behind 
Has swords for corn-blades, blood 

for dew." 

"O wild-birds, flying from the 
South, 
What saw and heard ye, gazing 
down?" 
"We saw the mortar's upturned 
mouth, 
The sickened camp, the blazing 
town ! 

"Beneath the bivouac's starry 
lamps, 
We saw your march-worn children 
die; 
In shrouds of moss, in cypress 
swamps, 
We saw your dead uncoflBned lie. 

"We heard the starving prisoner's 
sighs ; 
And saw, from line and trench, 
your sons 
Follow our flight with home-sick eyes 
Beyond the battery's smoking 
guns." 

" And heard and saw ye only wrong 
And pain," I cried, "O wing-worn 
flocks?" 
"We heard," they sang, "the 
Freedman's song, 
The crash of Slavery's broken 
locks ! 

" We saw from new, uprising States 
The treason - nursing mischief 
spurned, 
^s, crowding Freedom's ample gates. 
The long-estranged and lost re- 
turned. 



" O'er dusky faces, seamed and old. 
And hands horn-hard with unpaid 
toil. 

With hope in every rustling fold, 
We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil. 

"And, struggling up through sounds 
accursed, 
A grateful murmur clomb the air, 
A whisper scarcely heard at first. 
It filled the listening heavens with 
prayer. 

"And sweet and far, as from a star. 
Replied a voice which shall not 
cease. 
Till, drowning all the noise of war. 
It sings the blessed song of 
peace I" 

So to me, in a doubtful day 
Of chill and slowly-greening 
spring. 

Low stooping from the cloudy gray. 
The wild-birds sang or seemed to 



They vanished in the misty air. 
The song went with them in their 
flight; 
But lo ! they left the sunset fair, 
And in the evening there was 
light. 

Whittier. 



A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO. 

No! is my answer from this cold 
bleak ridge 
Down to your valley: you may 
rest you there : 
The gulf is wide, and none can build 
a bridge 
That your gross Aveight would 
safely hither bear. 

Pity me, if you will. I look at you 
With something that is kinder far 
than scorn. 
And think, "Ah well! I might have 
grovelled too; 
I might have walked there, fet- 
tered and forsworn." 

I am of nature weak as others are; 
I might have chosen comfortable 

ways; 



HEROIC. 



247 



Once from these heights I shrank, 
beheld afar, 
In the soft lap of quiet, easy 
days. 

I might — (I will not hide it) — 
once I might 
Have lost, in the warm whirlpools 
of your voice, 
The sense of Evil, the stern cry of 
Right ; 
But truth has steered me free, and 
I rejoice : 

Not with the triumph that looks 
back to jeer 
At the poor herd that call theif 
misery bliss ; 
But as a mortal speaks when God is 
near, 
I drop you down my answer ; it is 
this : — 

I am not yours, because you seek in 
me 
What is the lowest in my own es- 
teem : 
Only my flowery levels can you 
see. 
Nor of my heaven-smit summits 
do you dream. 

I am not yours, because you love 
yourself : 
Your heart has scarcely room for 
me beside. 
I could not be shut in with name 
and pelf ; 
I spurn the shelter of your narrow 
pride ! 

Not yours ; because you are not man 
enough 
To grasp your countiy's measure 
of a man ! 
If such as you, when Freedom's 
ways are rough, 
Cannot walk in them, learn that 
women can ! 

Not yours, because, in this the na- 
tion's need, 
You stoop to bend her losses to 
your gain, 
AJid do not feel the meanness of 
your deed ; 
I touch no palm defiled with such 
a stain ! 



Whether man's thought can find too 
lofty steeps 
For woman's scaling, care not I 
to know; 
But when he falters by her side, or 
creeps. 
She must not clog her soul with 
him to go. 

Who weds me must at least witli 
equal pace 
Sometimes move with me at my 
being's height: 
To follow him to his more glorious 
place, 
His purer atmosphere, wei'e keen 
delight. 

You lure me to the valley: men 
should call 
Up to the mountains, where the 
air is clear. 
Win me and help me climbing, if at 
all! 
Beyond these peaks rich harmo- 
nies I hear, — 

The morning chant of Liberty and 
Law! 
The dawn pours in, to wash out 
Slavery's blot: 
Fairer than aught the bright sun 
ever saw 
Rises a nation without stain or 

SlJOt. 

The men and women mated for that 
time 
Tread not the soothing mosses of 
the plain ; 
Their hands are joined in sacrifice 
sublime ; 
Their feet firm set in upward paths 
of pain. 

Sleep yoiu- thick sleep, and go your 
drowsy way ! 
You cannot hear the voices in the 
air ! 
Ignoble souls will shrivel in that 
day : 
The brightness of its coming can 
you bear ? 

For me, I do not walk these laills 
alone : 
Heroes who poured their blood out 
for the Truth, 



248 



PARNASSUS. 



Women whose hearts bled, martyrs 
all unknown, 
Here catch the sunrise of immor- 
tal youth 

On their pale cheeks and consecrat- 
ed brows ! 
It charms me not, — your call to 
rest below : 
I press their hands, my lips pro- 
nounce their vows : 
Take my life's silence for your an- 
swer: No. 

Lttct Larcom. 



THE BAY FIGHT.* 

" On the forecastle, Ulf the Red 
Watched the lashing of the ships — 

' If the Serpent lies so far ahead, 
We shall have hard work of it here,' 
Said he." 

Thkee days through sapphire seas 
we sailed. 
The steady Trade blew strong and 
free, 
The Northern Light his banners 

paled. 
The Ocean Stream our channels wet. 

We rounded low Canaveral's lee. 
And passed the isles of emerald set 
In blue Bahama's turquoise sea. 

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, 
And hauntings of the gray sea- wolf , 

The palmy Western Key lay lapped 
In the warm washing of the Gulf. 

But weary to the hearts of all 
The burning glare, the barren 

reach 
Of Santa Eosa's withered beach, 

And Pensacola's ruined wall. 

And weary was the long pati'ol, 
The thousand miles of shapeless 
strand, 

From Brazos to San Bias that roll 
Their drifting dunes of desert sand. 

Yet coast-wise as we cruised or lay. 
The land-breeze still at nightfall 
bore, 
By beach and fortress-guarded bay. 
Sweet odors from the enemy's 
shore, 

* Mobile Bay, Aug. 5, 1864. 



Fresh from the forest solitudes. 
Unchallenged of his sentry lines, — 

The bursting of his cypress buds. 
And the warm fragrance of his 
pines. 

All, never braver bark and crew, 
Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare, 

Had left a wake on ocean blue 
Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le- 
mer!* 

But little gain by that dark ground 
Was ours, save, sometime, freer 
breath 
For friend or brother strangely 
found, 
'Scaped from the drear domain of 
death. 

And little venture for the bold. 
Or laurel for our valiant Chief, 
Save some blockaded British thief, 

Full fraught with murder in his 
hold. 

Caught unawares at ebb or flood. 
Or dull bombardment, day by day, 
With fort and earth- work, far away, 

Low couched in sullen leagues of 
mud. 

A weary time, — but to the strong 
The day at last, as ever, came ; 

And the volcano, laid so long. 
Leaped forth in thunder and in 
flame! 

" Man your starboard battery ! " 

Ximberly shouted ; — 
The ship, with her hearts of oak, 
Was going, 'mid roar and smoke, 

On to victory ! 
None of us doubted. 
No, not our dying, — 
Farragut's Flag was flying! 

Gaines growled low on our left, 

Morgan roared on our right ; — 
Beforeus, gloomy and fell. 
With breath like the fume of hell, 
Lay the Dragon of iron shell. 
Driven at last to the fight ! 

Ha, old ship ! do they thrill, 
The brave two hundred scars 

* The flag-ship of Richard I. 



HEROIC. 



249 



You got in the River-Wars ? 
That were leeched with clamorous 
skill, 

(Surgery savage and hard,) 
Splinted with bolt and beam, 
Probed in scarfing and seam, 

Rudely linted and tarred 
With oakum and boiling pitch. 
And sutured with splice and hitch, 

At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard ! 

Our lofty spars were down. 
To bide the battle's frown, 
(Wont of old renown) — 
But every ship was drest 
In her bravest and her best, 

As if for a July day; 
Sixty flags and three, 

As we floated up the bay — 
At every peak and mast-head flew 
The brave Red, White, and Blue, — 

We were eighteen ships that day. 

With hawsers strong and taut. 
The weaker lashed to port. 

On we sailed two by two — 
That if either a bolt should feel 
Crash through caldron or wheel. 
Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel. 

Her mate might bear her through. 

Forging boldly ahead, 
The great Flag-Ship led, 

Grandest of sights ! 
On her lofty mizzen flew 
Our Leader's dauntless Blue, 
That had waved o'er twenty 
fights ; 
So we went, with the first of the 
tide. 
Slowly, 'mid the roar 
Of the rebel guns ashore 
And the thunder of each full broad- 
side. 

Ah, how poor the prate 
Of statute and state 

We once held with these fellows ! 
Here, on the flood's pale-green, 

Hark how he bellows. 

Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer! 
Talk to them Dahlgren, 

Parrott, and Sawyer ! 

On, in the whirling shade 
Of the cannon's sulphury breath, 
We drew to the Line of Death 

That our devilish Foe had laid, — 



Meshed in a horrible net. 
And baited villanous well, 

Right in our path were set 
Three hundred traps of hell ! 

And there, O sight forlorn ! 
There, while the cannon 

Hurtled and thundered, — 
(Ah, what ill raven 
Flapped o'er the ship that morn!) — 
Caught by the under-death. 
In the drawing of a breath 
Down went dauntless Craven, 
He and his hundred ! 

A moment we saw her turret, 

A little heel she gave. 
And a thin white spray went o'er 
her, 

Like the crest of a breaking 
wave ; — 
In that great iron coffin. 

The channel for their grave. 

The fort their monument, 
(Seen afar in the offing,) 
Ten fathom deep lie Craven 

And the bravest of our brave. 

Then, in that deadly track, 
A little the ships held back. 

Closing up in their stations ; — 
There are minutes that fix the fate 
Of battles and of nations, 
(Christening the generations) 
When valor were all too late, 
If a moment's doubt be har- 
bored ; — 
From the main-top, bold and brief. 
Came the word of our grand old 
chief, — 
" Go on! " — 'twas all he said, — 
Our helm was put to starboard, 
And the Hartford joassed ahead. 

Ahead lay the Tennessee, 

On our starboard bow he lay, 
With his mail-clad consorts three, 

(The rest had run up the Bay,) — 
There he was, belching flame from 

his bow. 
And the steam from his throat's 

abyss 
Was a Dragon's maddened hiss ; — 

In sooth a most cursed craft ! — 
In a sullen, ring, at bay. 
By the Middle Ground they lay, 

Raking us, fore and aft. 



250 



PARNASSUS. 



Trust me, our berth was hot, 
Ah, wickedly well they shot — 

How their death-bolts howled and 
stung ! 
And the water-batteries played 
With their deadly cannonade 

Till the air around us rung; 

So the battle raged and roared ; — 

Ah, had you been aboard 
To have seen the fight we made ! 

How they leaped, the tongues of 
flame, 

From the cannon's fiery lip! 
How the broadsides, deck and frame. 

Shook the great ship ! 

And how the enemy's shell 
Came crashing, heavy and oft, 
Clouds of splinters flying aloft 

And falling in oaken showers ; — 
But ah, the pluck of the crew ! 

Had you stood on that deck of ours. 
You had seen what men may do. 

Still, as the fray grew louder. 

Boldly they worked and well — 
Steadily came the powder. 

Steadily came the shell. 
And if tackle or truck found hurt, 

Quickly they cleared the wreck — 
And the dead were laid to port, 

All a-row, on our deck. 

Never a nerve that failed, 

Never a cheek that paled. 
Not a tinge of gloom or pallor ; — 

There was bold Kentucky's grit, 
And the old Virginian valor. 

And the daring Yankee wit. 

There were blue eyes from turfy 
Shannon, 
There were black orbs from palmy 
Niger, — 
But there, alongside the cannon. 
Each man fought like a tiger ! 

A little, once, it looked ill. 

Our consort began to burn — 
They quenched the flames with a will, 
But our men were falling still, 
And still the fleet Avas astern. 

Right abreast of the Fort 
In an awful shroud they lay. 
Broadsides thundering away, 

And lightning from every port ; 



Scene of glory and dread ! 
A storm-cloud all aglow 

With flashes of fiery red, 
The thunder raging below. 

And the forest of flags o'erhead! 

So grand the hurly and roar, 
So fiercely their broadsides blazed, 

The regiments fighting ashore 
Forgot to fire as they gazed. 

There, to silence the Foe, 

Moving grimly and slow. 
They loomed in that deadly wreath, 

WTiere the darkest batteries 
frowned, — 

Death in the air all round. 
And the black torpedoes beneath ! 

And now, as we looked ahead. 

All for'ard, the long white deck. 
Was growing a strange dull red — 

But soon, as once and again 
Fore and aft we sped, 

( The firing to guide or check, ) 
You could hardly choose but tread 

On the ghastly human wreck, 
(Dreadful gobbet and shred 

That a minute ago were men !) 

Red, from main-mast to bitts ! 

Red, on bulwark and wale, 
Red, by combing and hatch, 

Red, o'er netting and vail! 

And ever, with steady con, 
The ship forged slowly by, — 

And ever the crew fought on. 
And their cheers rang loud and high. 

Grand was the sight to see 
How by their guns they stood, 

Right in front of our dead, 
Figliting square abreast, — 
Each brawny arm and chest 

All spotted with black and red, 
Chrism of fire and blood ! 

Worth our watch, dull and sterile, 
Worth all the weary time. 

Worth the woe and the peril. 
To stand in that strait sublime ! 

Fear ? A forgotten form ! 

Death ? Adream of the eyes ! 
We were atoms in God's great storm 

That roared through the angry 
skies. » 



HEROIC. 



251 



One only doubt was ours, 

One only dread we knew, — 
Could the day that dawned so well 
Go down for the Darker Powers? 

Would the fleet get through? 
And ever the shot and shell 
Came with the howl of hell. 
The splinter-clouds rose and fell, 

And the long line of corpses 
grew, — 

Would the fleet win through ? 

They are men that never will fail, 
(How aforetime they've fought!) 

But Murder may yet prevail, — 
They may sink as Craven sank. 

Therewith one hard fierce thought, 

Burning on heart and lip, 

Ean like fire through the ship, — 
FUjht her, to the last plank ! 

A dimmer renown might strike 
If Death lay square alongside, — 

But the Old Flag has no like. 
She must fight, whatever betide ; — 

When the War is a tale of old. 

And this day's story is told, 
They shall hear how the Hartford 
died ! 

But as we ranged ahead, 

And the leading ships worked in, 

Losing their hope to win, 
The enemy turned and fled — 
And one seeks a shallow reach ; 

And another, winged in her flight. 

Our mate, brave Jouett, brings 
in; — 

And one, all torn in the fight, 
Runs for a wreck on the beach. 

Where her flames soon fire the 
night. 

And the Ram, when well up the Bay, 

And we looked that our stems 
should meet, 
(He had us fair for a prey,) 
Shifting his helm midway. 

Sheered off, and ran for the fleet ; 
There, without skulking or sham, 

He fought them, gun for gun. 
And ever he sought to ram. 

But could finish never a one. 

From the first of the iron shower 
Till we sent our parting shell, 

Twas just one savage hour 
Of the roar and the rage of hell. 



With the lessening smoke and thun- 
der, 
Our glasses around we aim, — 
What is that burning yonder ? 
Our Philippi — aground and in 
flame! 

Below, 'twas still all a-roar. 
As the sliips went by the shore. 

But the tire of the Fort had slacked, 
(So fierce their volleys had been) — 
And now, with a miglity din. 
The whole fleet came grandly in. 

Though sorely battered and 
wracked. 

So, up the Bay we ran, 

The Flag to port and ahead — 
And a pitying rain began 

To wash the li^DS of our dead. 

A league from the Fort we lay. 
And deemed that the end must 
lag, — 

Wlien lo ! looking down the Bay, 
There flaunted the Rebel Rag ; — 

The Ram is again under way 
And heading dead for the Flag ! 

Steering up with the stream. 

Boldly his course he lay. 
Though the fleet all answered his 

fire. 
And, as he still drew iiigher, 
Ever on bow and beam 
Our Monitors pounded away ; — 
How the Chickasaw hammered 
away ! 

Quickly breasting the wave. 

Eager the prize to win. 
First of us all the brave 

Monongahela went in 
Under full head of steam ; — 
Twice she struck him abeam. 
Till her stem was a sorry work, 

(She might have run on a crag!) 
The Lackawana hit fair. 
He flung her aside like cork. 

And still he held for the Flag. 

High in the mizzen shroud, 

(Lest the smoke his sight o'er- 
whelm,) 

Our Admiral's voice rang loud, 
" Hard-a-starboard your helm ! 

Starboard ! and run him down ! " 



252 



PARNASSUS. 



Starboard it was, — and so, 
Like a biaciv squall's lifting frown, 
Our migbty bow bore down 

On tbe iron beak of the Foe. 

We stood on tbe deck together. 
Men that had looked on death 

In battle and stormy weather, — 
Yet a little we held our breath, 
When, with the hush of death. 

The great ships drew together. 

Our Captain strode to the bow, 
Drayton, courtly and wise, 
Kindly cynic, and wise, 

(You hardly had known him now. 
The flame of fight in his eyes !) — 

His brave heart eager to feel 

How the oak would tell on the steel ! 

But, as the space grew short, 
A little he seemed to shun us, 

Out peered a form grim and lanky. 
And a voice yelled — " Hard-a-port ! 

Hard-a-port ! — here' s the damned 
Yankee 
Coming right down on us ! " 

He sheered, but the ships ran foul 
With a gnarring shudder and growl : 

He gave us a deadly gun ; 
But, as he passed in his pride, 
(Rasping right alongside !) 

The Old Flag, in thunder-tones, 
Poured in her port broadside. 
Rattling his iron hide, 

And cracking his timber bones ! 

Just then, at speed on the Foe, 

With her bow all weathered and 
brown. 

The great Lackawana came down 
Full tilt, for another blow; — 
We were forging ahead. 

She reversed — but, for all our 
pains. 
Rammed the old Hartford, instead, 

Just for'ard the mizzen chains ! 

Ah ! how the masts did buckle and 
bend. 

And the stout hull ring and reel. 
As she took us right on end ! 

(Vain were engine and wheel. 

She was under full steam) — 
With the roar of a thunder-stroke 
Her two thousand tons of oak 

Brought up on us, right abeam ! 



A wreck, as it looked, we lay, — 
(Rib and plank shear gave way 

To the stroke of that giant wedge !| 
Here, after all, we go — 
The old ship is gone ! — ah, no. 

But cut to the water's edge. 

Never mind then, — at him again ! 

His flurry now can't last long; 
He'll never again see land, — 
Try that on him, Marchand ! 

On him again, brave Strong ! 

Heading square at the hulk, 
Full on his beam we bore ; 

But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog 

Lay oh the tide like a log. 
He vomited flame no more. 

By this, he had found it hot ; — 
Half the fleet, in an angry ring, 
Closed round the hideous Thing, 

Hammering with solid shot, 

And bearing down, bow on bow, — 
He has but a minute to choose ; 

Life or renown ? — which now 
Will the Rebel Admiral lose ? 

Cruel, haughty, and cold. 

He ever was strong and bold ; — 

Shall he shrink from a wooden 
stem? 
He will think of that brave band 
He sank in the Cumberland ; — 

Ay, he will sink like them. 

Nothing left but to fight 
Boldly his last sea-fight ! 

Can he strike? By Heaven, 'tis 
true ! 

Down comes the traitor Blue, 
And up goes the captive Wliite ! 

Up went the White ! All, then 
The hurrahs that, once and again, 
Rang from three thousand men 

Atl flushed and savage with fight! 
Our dead lay cold and stark. 
But our dying, down in the dark, 

Answered as best they might. 
Lifting their poor lost arms. 

And cheering for God and Right! 

Ended the mighty noise. 
Thunder of forts and ships. 
Down we went to the hold, — 

Oh, our dear dying boys ! 



HEROIC. 



253 



How we pressed their poor brave 
lips, 

(Ah, so pallid and cold !) 
And held their hands to the last 

(Those that had hands to hold.) 

Still thee, O woman heart ! 

(So strong an hour ago) — 
If the idle tears must start, 

'Tis not in vain they flow. 

They died, our children dear. 
Oil the drear berth -deck they 
died, — 
Do not think of them here — 
Even now their footsteps near 
The immortal, tender sphere — 
(Land of love and cheer! 
Home of the Crucified!) 

And the glorious deed survives. 
Our threescore, quiet and cold, 

Lie thus, for a myriad lives 
And treasure-millions untold, — 

(Labor of poor nien's lives. 

Hunger of weans and wives, 
Such is war-wasted gold.) 

Our ship and her fame to-day 

Shall float on the storied Stream 
When mast and shroud have crum- 
bled away. 
And her long white deck is a 
dream. 

One daring leap in the dark. 
Three mortal hours, at the most, — 

And hell lies stiff and stark 
On a hundred leagues of coast. 

For the mighty Gulf is ours, — 
The bay is lost and won, 
An Empire is lost and won! 
Land, if thou yet hast flowers, 
Twine them in one more wreath 

Of tenderest white and red, 
(Twin buds of glory and death !) 
For the brows of our brave dead, — 
For thy Navy's noblest Son. 

Joy, O Land, for thy sons, 
Victors by flood and field ! 

The traitor walls and guns 
Have nothing left but to yield ; — 
(Even now they surrender!) 

And the ships shall sail once more. 
And the cloud of war sweep on 



To break on the cruel shore; — 
But Cravpn is gone, 
He and his hundred are gone. 

The flags flutter up and down 
At sunrise and twilight dim, 

The cannons menace and frown, — 
But never again for him, 
Him and the hundred. 

The Dahlgrens are dumb, 
Dumb are the mortars ; 

Never more shall the drum 
Beat to colors and quarters, — 
The great guns are silent. 

O brave heart and loyal ! 

Let all your colors dip ; — 

Mourn him, proud ship ! 
From main deck to royal. 

God rest our Captain, 

Best our lost hundred ! 

Droop, flag and pennant ! 

What is your pride for? 

Heaven, that he died for, 
Rest our Lieutenant. 

Rest our brave threescore ! 

O Mother Land ! this weary life 
We led, we lead, is 'long of thee ; 

Thine the strong agony of strife. 
And thine the lonely sea. 

Thine the long decks all slaughter- 
sprent. 
The weary rows of cots that lie 
With wrecks of strong men, marred 
and rent, 
'Neath Pensacola's sky. 

And thine the iron caves and dens 
Wherein the flame our war-fleet 
drives ; 
The fiery vaults, whose breath is 
men's 
Most dear and precious lives ! 

Ah, ever, when with storm sublime 
Dread Nature clears our murky 
air. 

Thus in the crash of falling crime 
Some lesser guilt must share. 

Full red the furnace fires must glow 
That melt the ore of mortal kind : 

The Mills of God are grinding slow. 
But ah, how close they grind! 



254 



PABNASSUS. 



To-Day the Dahlgren and the drum 
Are dread Apostles of His Name ; 

His Kingdom here can only come 
By chrism of blood and flame. 

Be strong : already slants the gold 
Athwart these wild and stormy 
skies ; 
From out this blackened waste, be- 
hold 
What happy homes shall rise ! 

But see thou well no traitor gloze, 
No striking hands with Death and 
Shame, 

Betray the sacred blood that flows 
So freely for thy name. 

And never fear a victor foe : — 
Thy children's hearts are strong 
and high ; 
Nor mourn too fondly; — well they 
know 
On deck or field to die. 

Nor shalt thou want one willing 
breath, 
Though, ever smiling round the 
brave. 
The blue sea bear us on to death, 
The green were one wide grave. 

U. S. Flag-ship Hartford, Mobile Bay, 
August, 1864. 

H. H. Bbownell. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

FOULLY ASSASSINATED APRIL 14, 

1865. 

You lay a wreath on murdered Lin- 
coln's bier, 
You, who with mocking pencil 
wont to trace. 
Broad for the self-complacent British 
sneer. 
His length of shambling limb, his 
furrowed face. 

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his un- 
kempt, bristling hair. 
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill 
at ease. 
His lack of all we prize as debonair, 
Of power or will to shine, of art 
to please ; 



You, whose smart pen backed up the 
pencil's laugh, 
Judging each step as though the 
way were plain ; 
Reckless, so it could point its para- 
graph 
Of chief's perplexity, or people's 
pain: 

Beside this corpse, that bears for 
winding-sheet 
The Stars and Stripes he lived to 
rear anew. 
Between the mourners at his head 
and feet. 
Say, scurrile jester, is there room 
for you ? 

Yes : he had lived to shame me from 
my sneer. 
To lame my pencil, and confute 
my pen ; — 
To make me own this hind of princes 
peer. 
This rail-splitter a true-born king 
of men. 

My shallow judgment I had learned 
to rue. 
Noting how to occasion's height 
he rose ; 
How his quaint wit made home-truth 
seem n\ore true ; 
How, iron-like, his temper grew by 
blows. 

How humble, yet how hopeful he 
could be : 
How in good fortune and in ill, the 
same : 
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful 
he. 
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for 
fame. 

He went about his work, — such work 
as few 
Ever had laid on head and heart 
and hand, — 
As one who knows, where there's a 
task to do, 
Man's honest will must Heaven's 
good grace command ; 

Wlio trusts the strength will with th^ 
burden grow. 
That God makes instruments t4 
work his will. 



HEROIC. 



255 



If but that will we can arrive to 
know, 
Nor tamper with the weights of 
good and ill. 

So he went forth to battle, on the 
side 
That he felt clear was Liberty's 
and Right's, 
As in his peasant boyhood he had 
- plied 
His warfare with rude Nature's 
thwarting mights, — 

The uncleared forest, the unbroken 
soil. 
The iron-bark, that turns the him- 
berer's axe. 
The rapid, that o'erbears the boat- 
man's toil, 
The prairie, hiding the mazed wan- 
derer's tracks. 

The ambushed Indian, and the 
prowling bear; — 
Such were the deeds that helped 
his youth to train : 
Rough culture, — but such trees large 
fruit may bear. 
If but their stocks be of right 
girth and grain. 

So he grew up, a destined work to 
do. 
And lived to do it: four long-suf- 
fering years' 
Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived 
through, 
And then he heard the hisses 
change to cheers, 

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to 
praise, 
And took both with the same un- 
wavering mood : 
Till, as he came on light, from dark- 
hng days. 
And seemed to touch the goal from 
where he stood, 

A felon hand, between the goal and 

him, 
Reached from behind his back, a 

trigger prest, — 
And those perplexed and patient 

eyes were dim, 
Thoee gaunt, long-laboring limbs 

were laid to rest ! 



The words of mercy were upon his 
lips. 
Forgiveness in his heart and on his 
pen, 
When this vile murderer brought 
swift eclipse 
To thoughts of peace on earth, 
good-will to men. 

The Old World and the New, from 
sea to sea, 
Utter one voice of sympathy and 
shame ! 
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last 
beat high ; 
Sad life, cut short just as its -tri- 
umph came. 

A deed accurst ! Strokes have been 
struck before 
By the assassin's hand, whereof 
men doubt 
If more of horror or disgrace they 
bore; 
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, 
stands darkly out. 

Vile hand, that brandest murder on 
a strife, 
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and 
nobly striven ; 
And with the martyr's crown crown- 
est a life 
With much to praise, little to be 
forgiven. 

Tom Taylor in Punch. 



IN STATE. 

I. 

O Keeper of the Sacred Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy. 
Look down upon the warring world, 

and tell us what the end will 

be. 

"Lo, through the wintry atmos- 
phere. 
On the white bosom of the sphere, 
A cluster of five lakes appear ; 
And all the land looks like a couch, 
or warrior's shield, or sheeted 
bier. 



256 



PAKNASSUS. 



"And on that vast and hollow 

field, 
With both lips closed and both 

eyes sealed, 
A mighty Figure is i-evealed, — 
Stretched at full length, and stiff 

and stark, as in the hollow of 

a shield. 

" The winds have tied the drifted 

snow 
Around the face and chin ; and lo, 
The sceptred Giants come and go, 
And shake their shadowy crowns 

and say : ' We always feared it 

would be so ! ' 

" She came of an heroic race : 
A giant's strength, a maiden's 

grace, 
Like two in one seem to embrace, 
And match, and blend, and thor- 
ough-blend, in her colossal 
form and face. 

"Where can her dazzling falchion 

be? 
One hand is fallen in the sea ; 
The Gulf-Stream drifts it far and 

free; 
And in that hand her shining brand 

gleams from the depths re- 

splendently. 

" And by the other, in its rest, 
The starry banner of the West 
Is clasped forever to her breast ; 
And of her silver helmet, lo, a soar- 
ing eagle is the crest. 

"And on her brow, a softened 

light, 
As of a star concealed from sight 
By some thin veil of fleecy white, 
Or of the rising moon behind the 
raining vapors of the night. 

" The Sisterhood that was so 
sweet. 

The Starry System sphered com- 
plete. 

Which the mazed Orient used to 
greet. 
The Four and Thirty fallen Stars 
glimmer and glitter at her 
feet. 



" And over her, — and over all, 
For panoply and coronal, — 
The mighty Immemorial, 
And everlasting Canopy and Starry 
Arch and Shield of All." 



" Three cold, bright moons have 
marched and wheeled ; 

And the white cerement that re- 
vealed 

A Figure stretched upon a Shield, 
Is turned to verdure ; and the Land 
is now one mighty Battle- 
field. 

"And lo, the children which she 

bred, 
And more than all else cherished, 
To make them true in heart and 

head, 
Stand face to face, as mortal foes, 

with their swords crossed 

above the dead. 

"Each hath a mighty stroke and 

stride : 
One true, — the more that he is 

tried ; 
The other dark and evil-eyed ; — 
And by the hand of one of them, his 

own dear mother surely died ! 

' ' A stealthy step, a gleam of hell, — 
It is the simple truth to tell, — 
The Son stabbed and the Mother 

fell: 
And so she lies, all mute and pale, 

and pure and irreproachable ! 

"And then the battle-trumpet 

blew; 
And the true brother sprang and 

drew 
His blade to smite the traitor 

through ; 
And so they clashed above the bier, 

and the Night sweated bloody 

dew. 

" And all their children, far and 

wide. 
That are so greatly multiplied, 
Rise up in frenzy and divide ; 
And choosing, each whom he will 

serve, unsheathe the sword anc) 

take their side. 



A 



HEROIC. 



257 



"And in the low sun's bloodshot 

rays, 
Portentous of the coming days, 
The Two great Oceans blush and 
blaze, 
With the emergent continent be- 
tween them, wrapt in crimson 
haze. 

" Now whichsoever stand or fall, 

As God is great, and man is small, 

The Truth shajl triumph over all : 

Forever and forevermore, the Truth 

shall triumph over all!" 



*' I see the champion sword-strokes 
flash; 

I see them fall and hear them clash ; 

I hear the murderous engines crash ; 
I see a brother stoop to loose a foe- 
man-brother's bloody sash. 

" I see the torn and mangled corse, 
The dead and dying heaped in 

scores. 
The headless rider by his horse. 
The wounded captive bayoneted 

through and through without 

remorse. 

"I hear the dying sufferer cry. 
With his crushed face turned to 

the sky, 
I see him crawl in agony 
To the foul pool, and bow his head 

into its bloody slime, and die. 

"I see the assassin crouch and 

fire, 
I see his victim fall, — expire ; 
I see the murderer creeping nigher 
To strip the dead. He turns the 

head, — the face ! The son 

beholds his sire ! 

" I hear the curses and the thanks ; 
I see the mad charge on the flanks. 
The rents, the gaps, the broken 

ranks. 
The vanquished squadrons driven 

headlong down the river's 

bridgeless banks. 

" I see the death-gripe on the plain, 
The grappling monsters ou the 
main, 

17 



The tens of thousands that are 
slain. 
And all the speechless suffering and 
agony of heart and brain. 

" I see the dark and bloody spots. 
The crowded rooms and crowded 

cots. 
The bleaching bones, the battle 

blots, — 
And writ on many a nameless grave, 

a legend of forget-me-nots. 

" I see the gorged prison-den. 
The dead line and the pent-up pen. 
The thousands quartered in the fen. 
The living-deaths of skin and bone 

that were the goodly shapes 

of men. 

"And still the bloody Dew must 
fall! 

And His great Darkness with the 
Pall 

Of His dread Judgment cover all. 
Till the Dead Nation rise Trans- 
formed by Truth to triumph 
over all!" 

"And Last — and Last I see — 

The Deed." 
Thus saith the Keeper of the Key, 
And the Great Seal of Destiny, 
Whose eye is the blue canopy, 
And leaves the Pall of His great Dark- 
ness over all the Land and Sea. 

FOECEYTHE WiLLSON. 



KEQUIEM. 

Bkeathe, trumpets, breathe slow 

notes of saddest wailing ; 
Sadly responsive peal, ye mufiled 

drums. 
Comrades, with downcast eyes and 

muskets trailing. 
Attend him home: the youthful 

warrior comes, 

Upon his shield, upon his shield re- 
turning. 

Borne from the field of battle where 
he fell. 

Glory and grief together clasped in 
mourning. 

His fame, his fate, with sobs exult- 
ing tell. 



258 



PARNASSUS. 



Wrap round his brecast the flag his 

breast defended, — 
His country's flag, m battle's front 

unrolled : 
For it he died, — on earth forever 

ended, 
His brave young life lives in each 

sacred fold. 

With proud, proud tears, by tinge of 

shame untainted, 
Bear him, and lay him gently in his 

grave. 
Above the hero write, the young, 

half-sainted, 
" His country asked his life, his life 

he gave." 

Geoege Lxint. 



ODE. 

[Sung on the occasion of decorating the 
graves of the Confederate dead, at Mag- 
noUa Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.] 

Sleep sweetly in youi- humble 
graves, — 

Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ! 
Though yet no marble column craves 

The pilgrim here to pause, 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone ! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
Which keep in trust your storied 
tombs, 
Behold! your sisters bring their 
tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but your shades will 
smile 
More proudly on these wreaths to- 
day. 
Than when some cannon-mouldered 
pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned ! 

Henry Timkod. 



COMMEMORATION ODE. 



HARVARD UNIVERSITY, JULY 21, 

1865. 



Life may be given in many ways, 
And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
As bravely in the closet as the field, 
So generous is Fate; 
But then to stand beside her. 
When craven churls deride her, 
To front a lie in arms, and not to 
yield, — 
This shows, methinks, God's 

plan 
And measure of a stalwart man, 
Limbed like the old heroic 

breeds. 
Who stand self-poised on man- 
hood's solid earth, 
Not forced to frame excuses for 
his birth, 
Fed from within with all the strength 
he needs. 

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 

Whom late the Nation he had 

led, 
With ashes on her head. 
Wept with the passion of an angry 

grief : 
Forgive me, if from present things I 

turn 
To speak what in my heart will beat 

and burn. 
And hang my wreath on his world- 
honored urn. 
Nature, they say, doth dote. 
And cannot make a man 
Save on some worn-out plan, 
Repeating us by rote : 
For him her Old- World moulds aside 
she threw. 
And, choosing sweet clay from 

the breast 
Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero 

new, 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of 
God, and true. 
How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind 

indeed, 
Who loved his charge, but never 

loved to lead ; 
One whose meek flock the people 
■ joyed to be, 



HEROIC. 



259 



Not lured by any cheat of 

birth, 
But by his clear-grained human 
worth, 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 
They knew that outward grace 

is dust ; 
They could not choose but 
trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfalter- 
ing skill. 
And supple-tempered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring 
again and thrust. 
His was no lonely mountain-peak 

of mind. 
Thrusting to thin air o'er our 

cloudy bars, 
A seamark now, now lost in va- 
pors blind ; 
Broad prairie rather, genial, 

level-lined, 
Fruitful and friendly for all 
human kind. 
Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of 
loftiest stars. 
Nothing of Europe here. 
Or, then, of Europe fronting morn- 
ward still, 
Ere any names of Serf and 

Peer 
Could Nature's equal scheme 

deface ; 
Here was a type of the true elder 
race, 
And one of Plutarch's men talked 
with us face to face. 
I praise him not; ^it were too 
late; 
And some iunative weakness there 

must be 
In him who condescends to victory 
Such as the Present gives, and can- 
not wait, 
Safe in himself as in a fate. 
So always firmly he : 
He knew to bide his time. 
And can his fame abide, 
Still patient in his simple faith sub- 
lime, 
Till the wise years decide. 
Great captains, with their guns 

and drums, 
Disturb our judgment for the 

hour, 
But at last silence comes: 
These all are gone, and, standing 
like a tower, 



Our children shall behold his 

fame. 

The kindly-earnest, brave, foresee- 
ing man. 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, 
not blame. 

New birth of our new soil, the first 
American. 



We sit here in the Promised 

Land 
That flows with Freedom's honey 

and milk ; 
But 'twas they won it, sword in 
hand. 
Making the nettle danger soft for us 
as silk. 
We welcome back our bravest and 

our best ; — 
Ah, me ! not all ! some come not 
with the rest. 
Who went forth brave and bright as 

any here ! 
I strive to mix some gladness with 
my strain, 
But the sad strings complain, 
And will not please the ear ; 
I sweep them for a paean, but they 
wane 
Again and yet again 
Into a dirge, and die away in pain. 
In these brave ranks I only see the 

gaps. 
Thinking of dear ones whom the 

dumb turf wraps. 
Dark to the triumph which they died 
to gain : 
Fitlier may others greet the liv- 
ing, 
For me the past is unforgivmg ; 
I with uncovered head 
Salute the sacred dead. 
Who went, and who return not. — 

Say not so ! 
'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that 

repay, 
But the high faith that failed not by 

the way ; 
Virtue treads paths that end not in 

the grave ; 
No bar of endless night exiles the 
brave ; 
And to the saner mind 
We rather seem the dead that staid 
behind. 



260 



PARNASSUS. 



Blow, trumpets, all your exultations 
blow! 

For never shall their aureoled pres- 
ence lack: 

I see them muster in a gleaming row, 

With ever-youthful brows that 
nobler show ; 

We find in our dull road their shin- 
ing track ; 

In every nobler mood 

We feel the orient of their spirit 
glow, 

Part of our life's unalterable good, 

Of all our saintlier aspiration ; 

They come transfigured back. 

Secure from change in their high- 
hearted ways, 

Beautiful evermore, and with the 
rays 

Of morn on their white Shields of 
Expectation ! 



Not in anger, not in pride. 
Pure from passion's mixture 

rude 
Ever to base earth allied. 
But with far-heard gratitude. 
Still with heart and voice re- 
newed, 
To heroes living and dear martyrs 
dead. 
The strain should close that conse- 
crates our brave. 
Lift the heart and lift the head ! 
Lofty be its mood and grave, 
Not without a martial ring. 
Not without a prouder tread 
And a peal of exultation : 
Little right has he to sing 
Through whose heart in such an 

hour 
Beats no march of conscious 

power. 
Sweeps no tumult of elation ! 
'Tis no Man we celebrate, 
By his country's victories great, 
A hero half, and half the whim of 
Fate, 
But the pith and marrow of a 

Nation 
Drawing foi'ce from all her men. 
Highest, humblest, weakest, 

all. 
For her day of need, and then 
Pulsing it again through them, 
fill the basest can no longer cower 



Feeling his soul spring up divinely 

tall, 
Touched but in passing by her 

mantle-hem. 
Come back, then, noble pride, for 
'tis her dower! 
How could poet ever tower, 
If his passions, hopes, and fears, 
If his triumphs and his tears. 
Kept not measure with his peo- 
ple ? 
Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds 

and waves ! 
Clash out, glad bells, from every 

rocking stee^Dle ! 
Banners, adance with triumph, bend 
your staves ! 
And from every mountain-peak 
Let beacon-fire to answering 

beacon speak, 
Katahdin tell Monadnock, White- 
face he. 
And so leap on in light from sea 
to sea, 
Till the glad news be sent 
Across a kindling continent. 
Making earth feel more firm and air 

breathe braver : — 
" Be proud ! for she is saved, and all 
have helped to save her ! 
She that lifts up the manhood 

of the poor. 
She of the open soul and open 

door. 
With room about her hearth for 

all mankind ! 
The fire is dreadful in her eyes 

no more ; 
From her bold front the helm 

she doth unbind, 
Send all her handmaid armies 

back to spin, 
And bid her navies that so lately 

hurled 
Their crashing battle, hold their 

thunders in. 
Swimming like birds of calm 

along the unharmful shore. 
No challenge sends she to the 

elder world, 
That locked askance and hated ; 

a light scorn 
Plays on her mouth, as round 

her mighty knees 
She calls her children back, and 
waits the morn 
Of nobler day, enthroned between 
her subject seas." 



HEROIC. 



261 



Bow down, dear Land, for thou , 
hast found release ! 

Thy God, in these distempered 
days, 

Hath taught thee the sure wis- 
dom of his ways, 

And through thine enemies hath 
wrought thy peace ! 

Bow down in prayer and praise ! 

O Beautiful ! my Country ! ours 
once more ! 

Smoothing thy gold of war-di- 
shevelled hair 

O'er such sweet hrows as never 
other wore. 
And letting thy set lips, 
Freed from wrath's pale 
eclipse, . 

The rosy edges of their smile lay 
bare. 

What words divine of lover or of 
poet 

Could tell our love and make 
thee know it, 

Among the Nations bright be- 
yond compare ? 

What were our lives without 
thee ? 

Wliat all our lives to save 
thee? 

We reck not what we gave 
thee ; " 

We will not dare to doubt 
thee, 
But ask whatever else, and we will 
dare! 

J. R. Lowell. 



CHICAGO. 

OCT. 10, 1871. 

Blackened and bleeding, helpless, 

panting, prone, 
On the charred fragments of her 

shattered throne 
Lies she who stood but yesterday 

alone. 

Queen of the West! by some en- 
chanter taught 
To lift the glory of Aladdin's court. 
Then lose the spell that all that 
wonder wrought. 

Like her own prairies by some 

chance seed sown, 
Like her own prairies in one brief 

day grown. 
Like her own prairies in one fierce 

night mown. 

She lifts her voice, and in her plead- 
ing call 

We hear the cry of Macedon to 
Paul, 

The cry for help that makes her kin 
to all. 

But haply with wan fingers may she 

feel 
The silver cup hid in the proffered 

meal, 
The gifts her kinship and our loves 

reveal. 

Bbet Haute. 



VI 



PORTRAITS. - PERSONAL. 
PICTURES. 



t 



* Who will not honor noble numbers, when 
Verses outlive the bravest deeds of men? " — Hebkick. 



PORTRAITS.-PEESOE'AL.-PICTUEES. 



NEBUCHADNEZZAE. 

There was a king that much might, 
\Vlio Nabugodouosor hight. 
To his empire aud to his laws, 
As who saith, all in thilke dawes 
Were obeisaut, and tribute bear. 
As tho' God of earth he were : 
Till that the high kiug of kings 
Which seeth aud knoweth all things, 
Whose eye may nothing asterte, 
The privates of man's heart 
They speken and sound in his ear 
As though they loud winds were, — 
He took vengeance of his pride. 

GowEK : Confessio Amantis. 



ft 



NESTOR TO HECTOR. 



Nestor. — I have, thou gallant Tro- 
jan, seen thee oft. 

Laboring for destiny, make cruel 
way 

Through ranks of Greeldsh youth: 
and I have seen thee, 

As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian 
steed. 

Despising many forfeits and subdue- 
ments, 

Wlien thou hast hung thy ad- 
vanced sword i' the air. 

Not letting it decline on the de- 
clined : 

That I have said to some my stand- 
ers-by, 

Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life ! 

And I have seen thee pause, and take 
thy breath 

When that a ring of Greeks have 
hemmed thee in. 

Like an Olympian wrestling". This 
have I seen 



But this thy countenance, still 

locked in steel, 
I never saw till now. 

Let an old man embrace thee ; 
And, worthy warrior, welcome to 
our tents. 

Shakspeabe, 



CORIOLANUS. 

Cominius. — I shall lack voice ; the 

deeds of Coriolanus 
Should not be uttered feebly. — It is 

held, 
That valor is the chiefest virtue, 

and 
Most dignifies the haver : if it be, 
The man I speak of cannot in the 

world 
Be singly counterpoised. At sixteen 

years, 
Wlien Tarquin made a head for 

Rome, he fought 
Beyond the mark of others : our 

then dictator. 
Whom with all praise I point at, 

saw him fight 
When with his Amazonian chin he 

drove 
The bristled lips before him : he be- 

strid 
An o'erpressed Roman, and in the 

consul's view 
Slew three opposers : Tarquin's self 

he met. 
And struck him on his knee : in that 

day's feats. 
When he might act the woman in 

the scene. 
He proved best man of the field, and 

for his meed 
Was brow-bound with the oak. His 

pupil age 

265 



266 



PARNASSUS. 



Man-entered thus, lie waxfed like a 

sea; 
And, in the brunt of seventeen bat- 
tles since, 
He lurched all swords o' the garland. 
For this last, 

Before and in Corioli, let me say, 
I cannot speak him home. He 
stopped the fliers ; 
I And, by his rare example, made the 
coward 
Turn terror into sport : as waves be- 
fore 
A vessel under sail, so men obeyed, 
And fell below his stem : his sword 

(death's stamp). 
Where it did mark it took; from 

face to foot 
He was a thing of blood, whose every 

motion 
Was timed with dying cries ; alone 

he entered 
The mortal gate o' the city, which 

he painted 
With shunless destiny, aidless came 

off, 
And with a sudden re-enforcement 

struck 
Corioli, like a planet: now all's his : 
When by and by the din of war 'gan 

pierce 
His ready sense: then straight his 

doubled spirit 
Ke-quickened what in flesh was fati- 

gate. 
And to the battle came he; where 

he did 
Run reeking o'er the lives of men, 

as if 
'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we 

called 
Both field and city ours, he never 

stood 
To ease his breast with panting. 

Our spoils he kicked at, 
And looked upon things precious, as 

they were 
The common muck o' the world ; he 

covets less 
Than misery itself would give; re- 
wards 
His deeds with doing them ; and is 

content 
To spend the time to end it. 
His nature is too noble for the 
world : 
He would not flatter Neptune for his 
trident. 



Or Jove for his power to thunder. 

His heart's his mouth: 
What his breast forges, that his 

tongue must vent ; 
And, being angry, does forget that ever 
He heard the name of death. 

Shakspeake. 

CORIOLANUS AT ANTIUM. 

Coriolanus.— Heair^ St thou. Mars! 
Aufidius. — Name not the, god, 

thou boy of tears — 
Cor.— Ha! 

Auf. — No more. 
Cor. — Measureless liar, thou hast 

made my heart 
Too great for what contains it. Boy ! 

O slave! — 
Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time 

that ever 
I was forced to scold. Your judg- 
ments, my grave lords. 
Must give this cur the lie : and his 

own notion 
(Who wears my stripes impressed on 

him ; that must bear 
My beating to his grave) shall join to 

thrust 
The lie unto him. 
Cut me to pieces, Volsces ; men and 

lads. 
Stain all your edges on me.— Boy! 

False hound ! 
If you have writ your annals true, 

'tis there. 
That like an eagle in a dove-cote, I 
Fluttered your Volsces in Corioli : 
Alone I did it. — Boy ! 

Shakspeabe. 



THE BLACK PRINCE. 

French Kiwj. — 'ihmk- we King 

Harry strong ; 
And, princes, look you strongly arm 

to meet him. 
The kindred of him hath been 

fleshed upon us ; 
And he is bred out of that bloody 

strain, 
That haunted us in our familiar paths: 
Witness our too much memorable 

shame, 
WlienCressy battle fatally was struck, 
And all our princes captived, by the 

hand 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



267 



Of that black name, Edward, black 

prince of Wale-s ; 
Wliiles that his mountain sire, — on 

mountain standing, 
Up in the air, crowned with a golden 

sun, — 
Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to 

see him 
Mangle the work of nature, and deface 
The patterns that by God and by 

French fathers 
Had twenty years been made. This 

is a stem 
Of that victorious stock ; and let us 

fear 
The native mightiness and fate of 

him. 

Shakspeake. 



HENEY V. 

Canterbury. — The king is full of 

grace and fair regard. 
Ely. — And a true lover of the 

holy church. 
Cant. — The courses of his youth 

promised it not. 
The breath no sooner left his father's 

body, 
But that his wildness, mortified in 

him, 
Seemed to die too ; yea, at that veiy 

moment. 
Consideration like an angel came, 
And Avhipped the offending Adam 

out of him ; 
Leaving his body as a paradise. 
To envelop and contain celestial 

spirits. 
Never was such a sudden scholar 

made: 
Never came reformation in a flood. 
With such a heady current, scouring 

faults ; 
Nor never hydra-headed wilfulness 
So soon did lose his seat, and all at 

once, 
AS in this king. 

Hear him but reason in divinity. 
And, all-admiring, with an inward 

wish 
You would desire, the king were 

made a prelate ; 
Hear him debate of commonwealth 

affairs, 
You would say, — it hath been all- 
in-all his study: 



List his discourse of war, and you 
shall hear 

A fearful battle rendered you in 
music : 

Turn him to any cause of policy. 

The Gordian knot of it he will un- 
loose. 

Familiar as his garter; that, when 
he speaks. 

The air, a chartered libertine, is 
still, 

And the mute wonder lurketh in 
men's ears, 

To steal his sweet and honeyed sen- 
tences ; 

So that the air and practic part of 
life 

Must be the mistress to this theoric : 

Which is a wonder, how his grace 
should glean it, 

Since his addiction was to courses 
vain : 

His companies unlettered, rude, and 
shallow; 

His hours filled up with riots, ban- 
quets, sports. 

And never noted in him any study. 

Any retirement, any sequestration 

From open haunts and popularity. 
Shakspeare. 



SPENSER AT COURT. 

Full, little knowest thou, that hast 
not tried. 

What hell it is, in suing long to bide : 

To loose good dayes that might be 
better spent; 

To waste long nights in pensive dis- 
content ; 

To speed to-day, to be put back to- 
morrow ; 

To feed on hope, to pine with feare 
and sorrow ; 

To have thy prince's grace, yet want 
her peers ; 

To have thy asking, yet waite many 
yeares ; 

To fret thy soule with crosses and 
with cares ; 

To eate thy heart through comfort- 
less despairs ; 

To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, 
to run. 

To spend, to give, to want, to be 
undone. 

SPEN8EB. 



268 



PARNASSUS. 



ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BED- 
FORD. 

This morning, timely rapt with 

holy fire, 
I thought to form unto my zealous 

Muse 
What kind of creature I could most 

desire 
To honor, serve, and love, as poets use. 
I meant to make her fair, and free, 

and wise. 
Of greatest blood, and yet more 

good than great ; 
I meant the Day-Star should not 

brighter rise, 
Nor lend like influence from his lu- 
cent seat. 
I meant she should be courteous, 

facile, sweet. 
Hating that solemn vice of great- 
ness, pride; 
I meant each softest virtue there 

should meet 
Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
Only a learned and a manly soul 
I purposed her, that should, with 

even powers, 
The rock, the spindle, and the shears 

control 
Of Destiny, and spin her own free 

hours. 
Such when I meant to feign, and 

wished to see, 
My Muse bade Bedford write, and 

that was she. 

Ben Jonson. 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 

A SWEET, attractive kind of grace, 

A full assurance given by looks. 
Continual comfort in a face, 

The lineaments of Gospel books! 
I trow, that countenance cannot 

lie 
Whose thoughts are legible in 
the eye. 

Was ever eye did see that face. 

Was ever ear did hear that tongue. 
Was ever mind did mind his grace 
That ever thought the travel long? 
But eyes and ears, and every 

thought. 
Were with his sweet perfections 
caught. 

Matthew Royden. 



EPITAPH ON SHAKSPEAEE. 

What needs my Shakspeare for hia 
honored bones. 

The labor of an age in piled stones ? 

Or that his hallowed relics should 
be hid 

Under a star-y-pointing pyramid ? 

Dear son of Memory, great heir of 
fame. 

What need'st thou such weak wit- 
ness of thy name ? 

Thou in our wonder and astonish- 
ment 

Hast built thyself a live long monu- 
ment. 

For whilst, to the shame of slow- 
endeavoring art 

Thy easy numbers flow, and that 
each heart 

Hath from the leaves of thy un- 
valued book 

Those Delphic lines with deep im- 
pression took. 

Then thou, our fancy of itself be- 
reaving. 

Dost make us marble with too much 
conceiving ; 

And so sepulchred in such pomp 
dost lie. 

That kings for such a tomb would 
wish to die. 

Milton. 

EPITAPH. 

Underneath this stone doth lye 
As much beauty as could dye ; 
Which in life did harbor give 
To more virtue than doth live. 
If at all she had a fault. 
Leave it buried in this vault. 
One name was Elizabeth — 
The other, let it sleep with death : 
Fitter, where it dyed to tell, 
Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 
Ben Jonson. 



TRANSLATION OF COWLEY'S 
EPIGRAM ON FRANCIS DRAKE. 

The stars above will make thee 
known, 
If man were silent here ; 
The sun himself cannot forget 
His fellow-traveller. 

Ben Jonson. 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



269 



EPITAPH. 

Underneatu this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse, — 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 
Death ! ere thou hast killed another 
Fair, and learned, and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

Ben Jonson. 



EPIGEAM. 

UvEDALE, thou piece of the first 

times, a man 
Made for what Nature could, or 

Virtue can ; 
Both whose dimensions lost, the 

world might find 
Restored in thy body, and thy mind ! 
Who sees a soul in such a body set, 
Might love the treasure for the cabi- 
net. 
But I, no child, no fool, respect the 

kind 
The full, the glowing graces there 

enshrined. 
Which, (would the world not miscall 

it flattery, ) 
I could adore, almost to idolatry. 

Ben Jonson. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF RUT- 
LAND. 

There, like a rich and golden pyra- 
mid. 
Borne up by statues, shall I rear 

your head 
Above your under-carved ornaments. 
And show how to the life my soul 

presents 
Your form imprest there, not with 

tickling rhymes 
Or common-places filched, that take 

these times. 
But high and noble matter, such as 

flies 
From brains entranced, and" filled 

with ecstasies, 
Moods which the god-like Sidney oft 

did prove. 
And your brave friend and mine so 

well did love, 

Ben Jonson. 



TO WILLIAM SIDNEY, ON HIS 
BIRTHDAY. 

Give me my cup, but from the Thes- 
pian well, 
That I may tell to Sidney, what 
This day doth say. 
And he may think on that 
Which I do tell 
When all the noise 
Of these forced joys 
Are fled and gone. 
And he with his best genius left alone, 

'Twill be exacted of your name whose 

son. 
Whose neiDhew, whose grandchild 

you are ; 
And men will then 
Say you have followed far, 
Wlien well begun : 
Which must be now : they teach you 

how; 
And he that stays 
To live until to-morrow, hath lost 

two days. 
Then 
The birthday shines, when logs not 

burn, but men. 

Ben Jonson. 



PRAYER TO BEN JONSON. 

When I a verse shall make, 
Know I have prayed thee. 
For old religion's sake. 
Saint Ben, to aid me. 

Make the way smooth for me, 
When I, thy Herrick, 
Honoring thee, on my knee 
Offer my lyric. 

Candles I'll give to thee. 
And a new altar ; 
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be 
Writ iu my psalter. 

Herrick. 



TO LIVE MERRILY, AND TO 
TRUST TO GOOD VERSES. 

Now is the time for mirth, 
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; 

For the flowry earth. 
The golden pomp is come. 



270 



PARNASSUS. 



The golden pomp is come ; 

For now each tree does wear, 
Made of her pap and gum, 

Kich beads of amber here, 

Kow reigns the Rose, and now 
The Arabian dew besmears 

My uncontrolled brow, 
And my retorted hairs. 

Homer ! this health to thee, 

In sack of such a kind. 
That it would make thee see, 

Though thou wert ne'er so blind. 

Next, Virgil I'll call forth. 
To pledge this second health 

In wine, whose each cup's worth 
An Indian commonwealth. 

A goblet next I'll drink 

To Ovid ; and suppose 
Made he the pledge, he'd think 

The woiid had all one nose. 

Then this immensive cup 

Of aromatic wine, 
Catullus, I quaff up 

To that terse muse of thine. 

Wild I am now with heat, 
O Bacchus ! cool thy rays ; 

Or frantic I shall eat 
Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays. 

Round, round, the roof does run ; 

And being ravisht thus. 
Come, I will drink a tun 

To my Propertius. 

Now, to TibuUus next, 
This flood I drink to thee ; 

But stay, I see a text, 
That this presents to me. 

Behold ! Tibullus lies 

Here burnt, whose small return 
Of ashes scarce suflSce 

To fill a little urn. 

Trust to good verses then ; 

They only will aspire, 
"When pyramids, as men. 

Are lost in the funeral fire. 

And when all bodies meet 
In Lethe, to be drowned ; 

Then only numbers sweet. 
With endless life are crowned. 

Hkkrick. 



SONNET. 

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE 
OF TWENTY-THREE. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle 

thief of youth. 
Stolen on his wing my three and 
twentieth year ! 
My hasting days fly on with full 

career. 
But my late spring no bud or 
blossom show'th. 
Perhaps my semblance might deceive 
the truth, 
That I to manhood am arrived so 

near. 
And inward ripeness doth much 

less appear. 
That some more timely-happy 
spirits indu'th. 
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow. 
It shall be still in strictest meas- 
ure even 
To that same lot, however mean 
or high, 
Toward which Time leads me, and 
the will of Heaven : 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
As ever in my great Task-master's 
eye. 

Milton. 



ODE TO BEN JONSON. 

Ah Ben ! 
Say how or when 
Shall we, thy guests, 
Meet at those lyric feasts. 

Made at the Sun, 
The Dog, the Triple Tun ; 
Where we such clusters had 
As made us nobly wild, not mad ; 
And yet each verse of thine 
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic 
wine. 

My Ben ! 
Or come again. 

Or send to us 
Thy wit's great overplus ; 

But teach us yet 
Wisely to husband it, 
Lest we that talent spend : 
And having once brought to an end 

That precious stock, the store 
Of such a wit, the world should have 
no more. 

Herkick. 



PORTRAITS. —PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



271 



TO SIR HENRY VANE. 

Vane, young in years, but in sage 

counsel old. 
Than whom a better senator 

ne'er held 
The helm of Rome, when gowns, 

not arms, repelled 
The fierce Epjrot, and the Afri- 
can bold, 
Wliether to settle peace, or to unfold 
The drift of hollow states, hard 

to be spelled ; 
Then to advise how War may, 

best upheld. 
Move by her two main nerves, 

iron and gold. 
In all her equipage: besides to 

know 
Both spiritual power and civil, 

what each means, 
■\Vhat severs each, thou hast 

learned, which few have done : 
The bounds of either sword to thee 

we owe : 
Therefore on thy firm hand 

Religion leans 
In peace, and reckons thee her 

eldest son. 

Milton. 



ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is 

spent. 
Ere half my days, in this dark 

world and wide. 
And that one talent which is 

death to hide. 
Lodged with me useless, though 

my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and 

present 
My true account, lest he returning 

chide ; 
" Doth God exact day-labor, light 

denied?" 
I fondly ask: But Patience, to 

prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, "God 

doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own 

gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him 

best : his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding 

speed, 



And post o'er land and ocean 

without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand 

and wait." 

Milton. 

SONNET. 

O, FOR my sake do you with Fortune 
chide, 

The guilty goddess of my harmful 
deeds. 

That did not better for my life pro- 
vide. 

Than public means, which public 
manners breeds. 

Thence comes it that my name re- 
ceives a brand, 

And almost thence my nature is 
subdued 

To what it works in, like the dyer's 
hand : 

Pity me then, and wish I were re- 
newed ; 

Whilst, like a willing patient, I will 
drink 

Potions of eyesell, 'gainst my strong 
infection : 

No bitterness that I will bitter think. 

Nor double penance, to correct cor- 
rection. 
Pity me then, dear friend, and I 

assure ye, 
Even that your pity is enough to 
cure me. 

Shakspeare. 



PORTRAIT OF ADDISON. 

Peace to all such! but were there 

one whose fires 
True genius kindles, and fair fame 

inspires ; 
Blest with each talent and each art 

to please, 
And born to write, converse, and 

live with ease ; 
Should such a man, too fond to rule 

alone, 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near 

the throne. 
View him with scornful, yet with 

jealous eyes. 
And hate for arts that caused him- 
self to rise ; 
Damn with faint praise, assent with 

civil leer, 



272 



PARNASSUS. 



Aiid, without sneering, teach the 
rest to sneer ; 

Willing to wound, and yet afraid to 
strike, 

Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike ; 

Alike reserved to blame, or to com- 
mend, 

A timorous foe, and a suspicious 
friend ; 

Dreading even fools, by flatterers 
besieged. 

And so obliging that he ne' er obliged ; 

Like Cato, give his little senate laws, 

And sit attentive to his own applause ; 

Whilst wits and Templars every sen- 
tence raise, 

And wonder with a foolish face of 
praise : — 

Who but must laugh, if such a one 
there be ? 

Who would not weep, if Atticus 
were he ? 

Pope. 

LINES TO ALEXANDER POPE. 

While malice. Pope, denies thy page 
Its own celestial fire ; 
While critics, and while bards in rage. 
Admiring, won't admire : 

While wayward pens thy worth as- 
sail, 

And envious tongues decry ; 

These times, though many a friend 
bewail, 

These, times bewail not I. 

But when the world's loud praise is 

thine. 
And spleen no more shall blame : 
When with thy Homer thou shalt 

shine 
In one unclouded fame : 

When none shall rail, and every lay 
Devote a wreath to thee ; 
That day, (for come it will,) that day 
Shall I lament to see. 

David Lewis. 



THE MAN OF ROSS. 

But all our praises why should lords 

engross ? 
Rise, honest muse! and sing the 

Man of Ross : 



Pleased Vaga echoes through hei 

winding bounds. 
And rapid Severn hoarse applause 

resounds. 
Who hung with woods yon moun- 
tain's sultry brow? 
From the dry rock who bade the 

waters flow ? 
Not to the skies in useless columns 

tost. 
Or in proud falls magnificently lost, 
But clear and artless, pouring 

through the plain 
Health to the sick, and solace to the 

swain. 
Whose causeway parts the vale with 

shady rows ? 
Whose seats the weary traveller re- 
pose? 
Wlio taught that heaven-directed 

spire to rise ? 
" The Man of Ross," each lisping 

babe replies. 
Behold the market-place with poor 

o'erspread ! 
The Man of Ross divides the weekly 

bread : 
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but 

void of state. 
Where age and want sit smiling at 

the gate : 
Him portioned maids, apprenticed 

orphans blest, 
The young who labor, and the old 

who rest. 
Is any sick ? The Man of Ross re- 
lieves. 
Prescribes, attends, the medicine 

makes and gives. 
Is there a variance? enter but his 

door. 
Balked are the courts, and contest is 

no more : 
Despairing quacks with curses fled 

the place. 
And vile attorneys, now a useless race. 
Thrice happy man ! enabled to pur- 
sue 
What all so wish but want the 

power to do ! 
Oh say, what sums that generous! 
hand supply ? ] 

Wliat mines to swell that boundless! 

charity ? 

Of debts and taxes, wife and children] 

clear, J 

This man possessed — five hundred] 

pounds a year. 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



273 



Blusli ifrandeur, blush ! proud courts, 
withdraw your blaze ; 

Ye little stars ! hide your diminished 
rays. 

And what? no monument, inscrip- 
tion, stone, 

His race, his form, his name almost 
unknown? 

Who builds a church to God, and 
not to fame 

Will never mark the marble with his 
name. 

Pope. 



ELEGY ON MISTRESS ELIZA- 
BETH DRURY. 

She, of whose soul, if we may say, 
'twas gold, 

Her body was the Electrum, and did 
hold 

Many degrees of that ; we understood 

Her by her sight ; her pure and elo- 
quent blood 

Spoke in her cheeks, and so dis- 
tinctly wrought. 

That one might almost say, her body 
thought. 

She, she thus richly, largely housed, 
is gone. 

And chides us slow-paced snails who 
crawl upon 

Our prison's prison, Earth, nor 
think us well 

Longer than whilst we bear our 
little shell. 



What hope have we to know our- 

seh^es, when we 
Know not the least things which 

for our use be ? 
What Caesar did, yea, and what 

Cicero said. 
Why grass is green, or why our 

blood is red. 
Are mysteries which none have 

reached unto ; 
In this low form, poor soul, what 

wilt thou do ? 
O when wilt thou shake off this 

pedantry 
Of being caught by sense and fan- 
tasy? 
Thou look'st through spectacles; 

small things seem great 
Below ; but up into the watch-tower 

get, 

18 



And see all things despoiled of 

fallacies ; 
Thou shalt not peep through lat- 
tices of eyes. 
Nor hear thiough labyrinths of ears, 

nor learn 
By circuit or collections to discern ; 
In heaven then straight know'st all 

concerning it, 
And what concerns it not, shall 

straight forget. 
There thou but in no other school 

mayst be 
Perchance as learned and as full as 

she; 
She, who all libraries had thoroughly 

read 
At home in her own thoughts, and 

practised 
So much good as would make as 

many more. 



Up, up, my drowsy soul ! where thy 

new ear 
Shall in the angels' songs no discord 

hear ; 
Where thou shalt see the blessed 

Mother-maid 
Joy in not being that which men 

have said ; 
■\Vliere she's exalted more for being 

good. 
Than for her interest of Mothei'hood : 
Up to those Patriarchs, who did 

longer sit 
Expecting Christ, than they've en- 
joyed him yet : 
Up to those Prophets, who now 

gladly see 
Their prophecies grown to be history : 
Up to the Apostles, who did bravely 

run 
All the sun's course, with more 

light than the sun : 
Up to those Martyrs, who did calmly 

bleed 
Oil to the Apostles' lamps, dew to 

their seed : 
Up to those Virgins, who thought 

that almost 
They made joint-tenants with the 

Holy Ghost, 
If they to any should his Temple 

give : 
Up, up, for in that squadron there 

doth live 
She who hath carried thither new 

degi'ees, 



274 



PARNASSUS. 



(As to their number,) to their digni- 
ties. 



She whom we celebrate is gone be- 
fore: 

Slie who had here so much essential 
joy, 

As no chance could distract, much 
less destroy; 

Wlio with God's presence was ac- 
quainted so, 

(Hearing and speaking to him,) as 
to know 

His face in any natural stone or tree 

Better than when in images they be : 

Wlio keijt by diligent devotion 

God's image in such reparation 

Within her heart, that what decay 
was grown 

Was her first Parent's fault, and not 
her own : 

Who, being solicited to any act, 

Still heard God pleading his safe 
pre-contract : 

Who, by a faithful confidence was 
here 

Betrothed to God, and now is mar- 
ried there : 

Whose twilights were more clear 
than our mid-day ; 

Who dreamed devoutlier than most 
use to pray: 

Who being here filled with grace, 
yet strove to be 

Both where more grace and more 
capacity 

At once is given. She to Heaven is 
gone, 

Wlio made this world in some pro- 
portion 

A Heaven, and here became unto us 
all 

Joy, (as our joys admit,) essential. 
Donne. 



TO MILTON. 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at 

this hour : 
England hath need of thee : she is a 

fen 
O stagnant waters : altar, sword, 

and pen. 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall 

and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English 

dower 



Of inward happiness. We are selfish 

men ; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, free- 
dom, power. 
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt 

apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound 

was like the sea : 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, 

free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common 

way. 
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy 

heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
Wordsworth. 



WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS IN- 
TENDED TO THE CITY. 

Captain or Colonel, or Knight in 

arms, 
Wliose chance on these defenceless 

doors may seize. 
If deed of honor did thee ever please, 
Guard them, and him within pro- 
tect from harms. 
He can requite thee, for he knows 

the charms 
That call fame on such gentle acts 

as these. 
And he can spread thy name o'er 

lands and seas. 
Whatever clime the sun's bright 

circle warms. 
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' 

bower : 
The great Emathian conqueror 

bid spare 
The house of Pindarus, when 

temple and tower 
Went to the ground ; and the repeated 

air 
Of sad Electra's poet had the power 
To save the Athenian walls from 

ruin bare. 

Milton. 



KOB ROY'S GRAVE. 

A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, 
The English ballad-singer's joy! 
And Scotland has a thief as good, 
An outlaw of as daring mood ; 
She has her brave Rob Roy ! 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



275 



Then clear the weeds from off hi.s 

grave, 
And let us chant a passing stave 
In honor of that hero brave ! 

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless 

heart, 
And wondrous length and strength 

of arm : 
Nor craved he more to quell his foes, 
Or keep his friends from harm. 

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave ; 
Forgive me if the phrase be strong ; — 
A poet worthy of Rob Roy 
Must scorn a timid song. 

Say, then, that he was wise as brave ; 
As wise in thought as bold in deed : 
For in the principle of things 
He sought his moral creed. 

Said generous Rob, " What need of 

books ? 
Burn all the statutes and their 

shelves ; 
They stir us up against our kind ; 
And worse, against ourselves. 

" We have a passion, make a law, 
Too false to guide us or control ! 
And for the law itself we fight 
In bitterness of soul. 

'* And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
Distinctions that are plain and few: 
These find I graven on my heart : 
That tells me what to do. 

" The creatures see of flood and 

field, 
And those that travel on the wind ! 
With them no strife can last : they 

live 
In peace, and peace of mind. 

"For why? — becaiise the good old 

rule 
Sufficeth them, the simple plan. 
That they should take who have the 
power, 
And they should keep who can. 

" A lesson which is quickly learned ; 
A signal this which all can see ! / 

Thus nothing here provokes the 
strong 
To wanton cruelty. 



' ' All f reakishness of mind is checked •, 
He tamed, who foolishly aspires : 
Wliile to the measure of his might 
Each fashions his desires. 

" All kinds, and creatures, stand and 

fall 
By strength of prowess or of wit: 
'Tis God's appointment who mu:?l 
sway, 
And who is to submit. 

"Since, then, the rule of right is 

plain, 
And longest life is but a day ; 
To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
I'll take the shortest way." 

And thus among the rocks he lived. 
Through summer'^s heat and winter's 

snow : 
The eagle, he was lord above, 
And Rob was lord below. 

So was it — would, at least, have been. 
But through untowardness of fate; 
For polity was then too strong ; 
He came an age too late. 

Or shall we say, an age too soon ? 
For, were the bold man living noio, 
How might he flourish in his pride, 
With buds on every bough ! 

Then rents and factors, rights of 
chase, 

Sheriifs, and lairds and their do- 
mains. 

Would all have seemed but paltry 
things, 
Not worth a moment's pains. 

Rob Roy had never lingered here, 
To these few meagre vales confined ; 
But thought how wide the world, 
the times 
How fairly to his mind. 

And to his sword he would have said, 
" Do thou my sovereign will enact 
From land to land through half the 
earth ! 
Judge thou of law and fact! 

" 'Tis fit that we should do our part; 
Becoming, that mankind should learn 
That we are not to be surpassed 
In fatherly concern. 



276 



PARNASSUS. 



" Of old things all are over old, 

Of good things none are good 

enough : — 
We'll show that we can help to frame 
A world of other stuff. 

" I, too, will have my kings that take 
From me the sign of life and death ; 
Kingdoms shall shift about like 
clouds. 
Obedient to my breath," 

And, if the word had been fulfilled, 
As might have been, then, thought 

of joy! 
France would have had her present 

boast, 
And we our brave Rob Roy ! 

Oh ! say not so ; compare them not ; 
I would not wrong thee, champion 

brave ! 
Would wrong thee nowhere; least 

of all 
Here standing by thy grave. 

For thou, although with some wild 

thoughts. 
Wild chieftain of a savage clan ! 
Hadst this to boast of ; thou didst love 
The liberty of man. 

And, had it been thy lot to live 
With us who now behold the light. 
Thou wouldst have nobly stirred thy- 
self. 
And battled for the right. 

For thou wert still the poor man's 

stay. 
The poor man's heart, the poor man's 

hand ! 
And all the oppressed who wanted 

strength 
Had thine at their command. 

Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
Of thoughtful herdsman when he 

strays 
Alone upon Loch Veol's heights, 
And by Loch Lomond's braes! 

And far and near, through vale and 

hill. 
Are faces that attest the same. 
And kindle, like a fire new stirred. 
At sound of Rob Roy's name. 

WOBDSWORTH. 



TO CAMPBELL. 

True bard and simple, — as the race 

Of heaven-born poets always are. 
When stooping from their starry 
place 
They're children near, though gods 
afar. 

Moore. 



STANZAS TO * * * 

Though the day of my destiny's 
over. 
And the star of my fate hath de- 
clined. 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 
The faults which so many could 
find. 

Though human, thou didst not de- 
ceive me ; 
Though woman, thou didst not 
forsake ; 
Though loved, thou foreborest to 
grieve me ; 
Though slandered, thou never 
couldst shake. 

Though trusted, thou didst not dis- 
claim me ; 
Though parted, it was not to fly ; 
Though watchful, 'twas not to de- 
fame me. 
Nor mute that the world might 
belie. 

In the desert a fountain is spring- 
ing, 
In the wild waste there still is a 
tree. 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 
Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
Byron. 



OUTWARD BOUND. 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my 

fair child ! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house 

and heart? 
When last I saw thy young blue 

eyes, they smiled. 
And then we parted, — not as now 

we part. 
But with a hope. — : 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



277 



Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and 

on high 
The winds Hf t up their voices : I 

depart, 
Wliither I know not; but the 
hour's gone by, 
Wlien Albion's lessening shores 
could grieve or glad mine eye. 

Once more upon the waters! yet 

once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me 

as a steed 
That Icnows his rider. Welcome 

to their roar ! 
Swift be theii". guidance, where- 

soe'er it lead! 
Though the strained mast should 

quiver as a reed. 
And the rent canvas fluttering, 

strew the gale. 
Still must I on; for I am as a 

weed, 
Flung from the rock, on ocean's 

foam, to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the 

tempest's breath prevail. 

Bykon. 



LOVE OF ENGLAND. 

I've taught me other'tongues, — 

and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to 

the mind 
Wliich is itself, no changes bring 

surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard 

to find 
A country with, — ay, or without 

mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are 

proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I 

leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage 

and free. 
And seek me out a home by a re- 
moter sea, — 

Perhaps I loved it well; and 

should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not 

mine, 
My spirit shall resume it, — if we 

may 



Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I 
twine 

My hopes of being remembered in 
my line 

With my land's language; if too 
fond and far 

These aspirations in their scope 
incline, — 

If my fame should be as my for- 
tunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull 
Oblivion bar 

My name from out the temple 

where the dead 
Are honored by the nations — let 

it be, — 
And light the laurels on a loftier 

head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on 

me, — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier 

son than he." 

BYKOJf. 



FARE THEE WELL. 

Fare thee well ! and if forever, 

Still forever, fare thee well ! 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
Would that breast were bared before 
thee 

Wliere thy head so oft has lain. 
While that placid sleep came o'er 
thee 

Wliich thou ne'er canst know 
again : 
Would "that breast, by thee glanced 
over, 

Every inmost thought could sliow ! 
Then thou wouldst at last discover 

'Twas not well to spurn it so. 
Though the world for this commend 
thee, — 

Though it smile upon the blow, 
Even its praises must offend thee, 

Founded on another's woe. 
Though my many faults defaced me. 

Could no other arm be found 
Than the one which once embraced 
me, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 

Love may sink by slow decay. 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 



278 



PARNASSUS. 



Still thine own its life retainetb ; 
Still must mine, though bleeding, 
beat ; 
And the undying thought which 
paineth, 
Is — that we no more may meet. 
These are words of deeper sorrow 

Than the wail above the dead ; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widowed bed. 
And when thou wouldst solace 
gather, 
Wlien our child's first accents flow, 
Wilt thou teach her to say " Fath- 
er!" 
Though his care she must forego ? 
When her little hands shall press 
thee, 
Wlien her lip to thine is pressed. 
Think of him whose prayer shall 
bless thee. 
Think of him thy love had blessed ! 
Should her lineaments resemble 

Those thou never more mayst see. 
Then thy heart will softly tremble 

With a pulse yet true to me. 
All my faults perchance thou know- 
est. 
All my madness none can know ; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest. 
Whither, — yet with thee they go. 
Every feeling hath been shaken ; 
Pride, which not a world could 
bow, 
Bows to thee, — by thee forsaken, 
Even my soul forsakes me now ; 
But 'tis done, — all words are idle, — 

Woi'ds from me are vainer still ; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will. 
Fare thee well ! thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie. 
Seared in heart, and love, and blight- 
ed, — 
More than this I scarce can die. 

Byron. 



NO MORE. 

No more — no more — Oh! never 
more on me 
The freshness of the heart can fall 
like dew, 
Which out of all the lovely things 
we see. 
Extracts emotions beautiful and 
new, 



Hived in ovir bosoms like the bag o' 

the bee. 
Think' St thou the honey with 

those objects grew ? 
Alas ! 'twas not in them, but in thy 

150wer, 
To double even the sweetness of a 

flower. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never 
more, my heart. 
Canst thou be my sole world, my 
universe ! 
Once all in all, but now a thing 
apart, 
Thou canst not be my blessing, or 
my curse : 
The illusion's gone forever. 

Byron. 



TO A MOUSE. 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, 
WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 



Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beas- 

tie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle! 

• 
I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social vmion. 
An' justifies that ill opinion. 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born com- 
panion. 

An' fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may 

thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun 

live! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request: 

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss't! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! 
An' naething, now, to big a new 
ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith saell an' keen! 



PORTRAJTS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



279 



Thou saw the fields laid bare an' 

waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stib- 

ble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now tliou's turned out, for a' thy 
trouble. 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thoii art no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' 
men, 

Gang aft a-gley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and 
pain. 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear ! 

Burns. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

OK TUENING ONE DOWN WITH THE 
PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! 
Wi' spreckled breast. 
When upward-springing, blythe, to 
greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 



Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce reared above the parent- 
earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens 

yield 
High sheltering woods and wa's 

maun shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 
O' clod, or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, ajane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share viptears thy bed. 
And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 
Low in the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless 

starred ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow 
hard. 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
Who long with wants and woes has 

striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 
Till, wrenched of every stay but 
Heaven, 

He, ruined, sink ! 

Even thou who mourn' st the daisy's 

fate. 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, 
elate. 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's 
weight 

Shall be thy doom ! 
Burns. 



280 



PARNASSUS. 



SANTA FILOMENA. 

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 

Our hearts, in glad surj)rise, 

To higher levels rise. 

The tidal wave of deeper souls 

Into our inmost being rolls, 
And lifts us unawares 
Out of all meaner cares. 

Honor to those whose words and deeds 
Thus help us in our daily needs. 
And by their overflow 
Raise us from what is low. 

Thus thought I, as by night I read 
Of the great army of the dead, 
The trenches cold and damp. 
The starved and frozen camp, — 

The wounded from the battle-plain. 

In dreary hospitals of pain. 
The cheerless corridors. 
The cold and stony floors. 

Lo ! in that house of misery 
A lady with a lamp I see 

Pass through the glimmering 
gloom, 

And flit from room to room. 

And slow, as in a dream of bliss. 
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
Her shadow as it falls 
Upon the darkened walls. 

As if a door in heaven should be 
Opened, and then closed suddenly. 
The vision came and went, 
The light shone, and was spent. 

OnEngland's annals, through the long 
Hereafter of her speech and song, 
That light its rays shall cast 
From portals of the past. 

The lady with a lamp shall stand 
In the great history of the land, 

A noble type of good 

Heroic womanhood. 

Nor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear, — 

The symbols that of yore 

Saint Filomena bore. 

Longfellow. 



THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF 
AGASSIZ. 

MAY 28, 1857. 

It was fifty years ago, 

In the jjleasant month of May, 
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 

A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 

The child upon her knee. 
Saying, " Here is a story-book 

Thy Father has written for thee." 

" Come, wander with me," she said, 
" Into regions yet untrod. 

And read what is still unread 
In the manuscripts of God." 

And he wandered away and away, 
With Nature, the dear old nurse, 

Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long. 
Or his heart began to fail. 

She would sing a more wonderful 
song. 
Or tell a more marvellous tale. 

So she keeps him still a child, 

And will not let him go. 
Though at times his heart beats 
wild 

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 

Though at times he hears in his 
dreams 

The Ranz des Vaches of old, 
And the rush of mountain streams 

From glaciers clear and cold ; 

And the mother at home says, 
"Hark! 
For his voice I listen and yearn : 
It is growing late and dark, 
And my boy does not return !" 

Longfellow. 



THE WANTS OF MAN. 

" Man wants but little here below, 
Nor wants that little long." 
'Tis not with me exactly so; 
But 'tis so in the song. 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



281 



My wants are many, and, If told. 
Would muster many a score ; 
And were each wish a mint of gold, 
I still should long for more. 

Wliat first I want is daily bread — 

And canvas-backs — and wine — 

And all the realms of nature spread 

Beffjre me, when I dine. 

Four courses scarcely can provide 

>[y appetite to quell; 

With four choice cooks from France 

beside 
To dress my dinner well. 

What next I want at princely cost, 

Is elegant attire : 

Black sable furs for winter's frost. 

And silks for summer's fire. 

And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels 

lace 
My bosom's front to deck, — 
And diamond rings my hands to grace, 
And rubies for my neck. 

I want (who does not want) a wife — 

Affectionate and fair ; 

To solace all the woes of life, 

And all its joys to share. 

Of temper sweet, of yielding will. 

Of firm yet placid mind, — 

With all my faults to love me still 

With sentiment refined. 

And as Time's car incessant runs, 
And fortune fills my store, 
I want of daughters and of sons 
From eight to half a score. 
I want (alas! can mortal dare 
Such bliss on earth to crave?) 
That all the girls be chaste and fair, 
The boys all wise and brave. 

I want a warm and faithful friend. 

To cheer the adverse hour ; 

Will) ne'er to flattery Avill descend. 

Nor bend the knee to power, — 

A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, 

My inmost soul to see ; 

And that my friendship prove as 

strong 
For him as his for me. 

I want the seals of power and place. 

The ensigns of command ; 

Charged by the People's unbought 

grace 
To rule my native JLand. 



Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask, 
But from my country's will. 
By day, by night, to ply the task 
Her cup of bliss to fill. 

I want the voice of honest praise 

To follow me behind, 

And to be thought in future days 

The friend of human kind, 

That after ages, as they rise. 

Exulting may proclaim 

In choral union to the skies 

Their blessings on my name. 

These are the wants of mortal man, 

I cannot want them long ; 

For life itself is but a span, 

And earthly bliss — a song. 

My last great ivant, absorbing all — 

Is, when beneath the sod, 

And summoned to my final call. 

The "mercy of my God." 

John Qxtincy Adams, 
Washington, Aug. 31, 1841. 



LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S 
ALBUM BELOW THE AUTO- 
GRAPH OF JOHN ADAMS. 

Dear lady, I a little fear 
'Tis dangerous to be writing here. 
His hand who bade our eagle fly. 
Trust his young wings, and mount 

the sky, — 
Who bade across the Atlantic tide 
New thunders sweep, new navies 

ride. 
Has traced in lines of trembling 

age 
His autograph upon this page. 
Higher than that eagle soars. 
Wider than that thunder roars. 
His fame shall through the world be 

sounding, 
And o'er the waves of time be bound- 
ing. 
Though thousands as obscure as I, 
Cling to his skirts, he still will fly 
And leap to immortality. 
If by his name I write my own, 
He'll take me where I am not known. 
The cold salute will meet my ear, 
"Pray, stranger, how did you come 
here?" 

Daniel Webster. 



282 



PARNASSUS. 



TO GEORGE PEABODY. 

Bankrupt — our pockets inside 
out! 
Empty of words to speak his 
praises ! 
Worcester and Webster up the spout ! 
Dead broke of laudatory phrases ! 
But why with flowery speeches tease. 
With vain superlatives distress 
him ? 
Has language better words than 
these ? 
The friend of all Ms race, God bless 
him ! 

A simple prayer — but words more 
sweet 
By human lips were never uttered, 
Since Adam left the country seat 
Where angel wings around him 
fluttered. 
The old look on with tear-dimmed 
eyes, 
The children cluster to caress him, 
And every voice unbidden cries. 
The friend of all his race, God bless 
him ! 

O. W. Holmes. 

A KING. 

A KING lived long ago, 

In the morning of the world, 
When Earth was nigher Heaven 
than now : 
And the King's locks curled 
Disparting o'er a forehead full 
As the milk-white space 'twixt 
horn and horn 
Of some sacrificial bull. 
Only calm as a babe new-born : 
For he was got to a sleepy 

mood, 
So safe from all decrepitude, 
Age with its bane so sure gone by, 
(The gods so loved him while he 

dreamed, ) 
That, having lived thus long, there 
seemed 
5^0 need the King should ever die. 

Among the rocks his city was ; 
Before his palace, in the sun, 
He sat to see his people pass. 
And judge them every one 
From its threshold of smooth 
stone. 

Robert Browning. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SEN- 
NACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the 

wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in 

purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was 

like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly ou 

deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when 
summer is green, 

That host with their banners at sun- 
set were seen : 

Like the leaves of the forest when 
autumn hath blown, 

That host on the morrow lay with- 
ered and strewn. 

For the Angel of Death spread his 

wing on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe 

as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed 

deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, 

and forever grew still. 

And there lay the steed with his nos- 
tril all wide, 

But through it there rolled not the 
breath of his pride ; 

And the foam of his gasping lay 
white on the turf, 

And cold as the spray of the rock- 
beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and 
pale, 

With the dew on his brow, and the 
rust on his mail ; 

And the tents were all silent, the 
banners alone. 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet un- 
blown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud 

in their wail. 
And the idols are broke in the temple 

of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentne, un- 

smote by the sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance 

of the Lord ! 

Bykon. 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 283 

CLEOPATRA. THE GLADIATOR. 



The barge she sat in, like a burnished 

throne, 
Burned on the water : the poop was 

beaten gold. 
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, 

that 
The winds were love-sick with them : 

the oars were silver ; 
Which to the tune of flutes kept 

stroke, and made 
The water, which they beat, to follow 

faster, 
As amorous of their strokes. For 

her own person, 
It beggared all description : she did 

lie 
In her pavilion, (cloth-of-gold, of 

tissue,) 
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we 

see, 
The fancy out-work nature : on each 

side her, 
Stood pretty boys, like smiling Cu- 
pids, 
With diverse-colored fans, whose 

wind did seem 
To glow the delicate cheeks which 

they did cool 
And what they imdid, did. 
Her gentlewomen, like the Nerei- 
des, 
So many mermaids, tended her i' 

the eyes. 
And made their bends adornings : at 

the helm 
A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken 

tackles 
Swell with the touches of those 

flower-soft hands, 
That yarely frame the office. From 

the barge 
A strange invisible perfume hits the 

sense 
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city 

cast 
Her people out upon her; and An- 
tony, 
Enthroned in the market-place, did 

sit alone, 
Whistling to the air; which, but for 

vacancy. 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra 

too. 
And made a gap in nature. 

Shakspeabe. 



I SEE before me the gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand; — his 

manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers 

agony, 
And his drooped head sinks grad- 
ually low — 
And through his side the last drops, 

ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, 

one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; 

and now 
The arena swims around him — he 

is gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which 

hailed the wretch who won. 

He heard it, but he heeded not, — 

his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was 

far away ; 
He recked not of the life he lost, 

nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the 

Danube lay. 
There were his young barbarians 

all at play. 
There was their Dacian mother, — 

he, their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holi- 
day;— 
All this rushed with his blood ; — 

Shall he expire. 
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, 

and glut your ire ! 

Byron. 



THE PRISOISTER OF CHILLONJ 

I MADE a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all, 

Wlio loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would hence- 
forth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barred windows, and to bend 
Once more upon the mountains high, 
The quiet of a loving eye. 

I saw them — and they were the same ; 
They were not changed like me in 
frame ; 



284 



PARNASSUS. 



I saw tlieir thousand years of snow 
On high, — tlieir wide long lake be- 
low, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the tori-ents leap and gush 
O'er channelled rock and broken 

bush; 
I saw the white-walled distant town, 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle, 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seemed no 

more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon 

floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers 

growing, 
Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle-wall. 
And they seemed joyous each and 

all; 
The eagle rode the rising blast ; 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seemed to fly, — 
And then new tears came in my 

eye. 
And I felt troubled, — ahd would fain 
I had not left my recent chain. 

Bykon. 



FROM PARISINA. 

EXECUTION. 

The convent-bells are ringing. 
But mournfully and slow ; 

In the gray square turret swinging, 
With a deep sound, to and fro. 
Heavily to the heart they go ! 

Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
The song for the dead below. 
Or the living, who shortly shall be 
so! 

For a departing being's soul 

The death-hymn peals, and the hol- 
low bells knoll : 

He is near his mortal goal ; 

Kneeling at the friar's knee; 

Sad to hear, — and piteous to see, — 

Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 

With the block before and the guards 
around ; — 



And the headsman with his bare arm 
ready. 

That the blow may be both swift and 
steady, 

Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 

Since he set its edge anew : 

While the crowd in a speechless cir- 
cle gather, 

To see the son fall by the doom of 
the father. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shall set, 
And his evening beams are shed 
Full on Hugo's fated head. 
As, his last confession pouring, 
To the monk his doom deploring, 
In penitential holiness, 
He bends to hear his accents bless 
With absolution such as may 
Wipe our mortal stains away. 

He died, as erring man should die, 
Without display, without parade ; 
Meekly had he bowed and prayed. 
As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
Bykon. 



FROM THE SIEGE OF COR- 
INTH. 

The night is past, and shines the 

sun 
As if that morn were a jocund 

one. 
Lightly and brightly breaks 

away 
The morning from her mantle 

gray. 
And the noon will look on a 

sultry day. 
Hark to the trump, and the 
drum. 
And the mournful sound of the bar- 
barous horn, 
And the flap of the banners, that flit 

as they're borne. 
And the neigh of the steed, and the 

multitude's hum, 
And the clash, and the shout, " They 

come, they come ! " 
The horse-tails are plucked from the 

ground, and the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and 
but wait for the word. 



I 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



285 



Tartar, and Spalii, and Turcoman, 
Strike your tents, and throng to the 

van; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 
That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
When he breaks from the town ; and 

none escape, 
Aged or young, in the Christian 

shape ; 
While your fellows on foot, in fiery 

mass. 
Bloodstain the breach through which 

they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort 

to the rein ; 
Cui'ved is each neck, and flowing 

each mane ; 
White is the foam of their champ 

on the bit : 
The spears are uplifted ; the matches 

are lit ; 
The cannon are pointed and ready to 

roar. 
And crush the wall they have crum- 
bled before : 
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; 
Alp at their head; his right arm is 

bare, 
So is the blade of his scimitar; 
The Khan and his pachas are all at 

their post : 
The vizier himself at the head of 

the host. 
Wlien the culverin's signal is fired, 

then On ! 
Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
A priest at her altars, a chief in her 

halls, 
A hearth in her mansions, a stone 

on her walls. 
God and the prophet — Alia Hu! 
Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
" There the breach lies for passage, 

the ladder to scale ; 
And your hands on your sabres, and 

how should ye fail ? 
He who first downs with the red cross 

may crave 
His heart's dearest wish; let him 

ask it, and have!" 
Thus uttered Coumourgi, the daunt- 
less vizier; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre 

and spear. 
And the shout of fierce thousands 

in joyous ire : — 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 
Byron. 



ENTRANCE OF BOLINGBROKE 
INTO LONDON. 

Duchess. — My lord, you told me 
you would tell the rest, 

When weeping made you break the 
story off, 

Of our two cousins coming into Lon- 
don. 
York. — Wliere did I leave ? 
Buck. — At that sad stop, my lord, 

Where rude misgoverned hands, 
from windows' tops, 

Threw dust and rubbish on King 
Richard's head, 
York. — Then as I said, the duke, 
great Bolingbroke, — 

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, 

Which his aspiring rider seemed to 
know, — 

With .slow but stately pace, kept on 
his course. 

While all tongues cried, " God save 
thee, Bolingbroke!" 

You would have thought the very 
windows spake, 

So many greedy looks of young and 
old 

Through casements darted their de- 
siring eyes 

Upon his visage, and that all the 
walls. 

With painted imagery, had said at 
once, — 

" Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bo- 
lingbroke!" 

Whilst he, from one side to the other 
turning, 

Bareheaded, lower than his proud 

steed's neck, 
• Bespake them thus, — "I thank you, 
countrymen:" 

And thus still doing, thus he passed 
along. 
Duch. — Alas, poor Richard, where 

rides he the while ? 
York. — As in a theatre, the eyes 
of men. 

After a well-graced actor leaves the 
stage, 

Are idly bent on him that enters next. 

Thinking his prattle to be tedious : 

Even so, or with much more con- 
tempt, men's eyes 

Did scowl on Richard ; no man ciled, 
God save him ! 

No joyful tongue gave him his wel- 
come home : 



286 



PARNASSUS. 



But dust was thrown upon his sa- 
cred head, 

Which with such gentle sorrow he 
shook off, — 

His face still combating with tears 
and smiles, 

The badges of his grief and pa- 
tience, — 

That, had not God, for some strong 
purpose, steeled 

The hearts of men, they must per- 
force have melted, 

And barbarism itself have pitied 
him. 
Shakspeaee : King Richard II. 



THE CALIPH'S ENCAMPMENT. 

Whose are the gilded tents that 

crowd the way, 
Where all was waste and silent yes- 
terday ? 
This City of War, which, in a few 

short hours, 
Hath sprung up here, as if the 

magic powers 
Of Him who, in the twinkling of a 

star. 
Built the high-pillared walls of Chil- 

minar. 
Had conjured up, far as the eye can 

see. 
This world of tents, and domes, and 

sun-bright armory : — 
Princely pavilions, screened by many 

a fold 
Of crimson cloth, and topped with 

balls of gold : — 
Steeds, with their housings of rich 

silver spun. 
Their chains and poitrels glittering 

in the sun ; 
And camels, tufted o'er with Te- 

men's shells 
Shaking in every breeze their light- 
toned bells ! 

MOOKE. 



FOP. 

Hotspur. — My liege, I did deny no 
prisoners. 

But I remember, when the fight was 
done. 

When I was dry with rage, and ex- 
treme toil. 



Breathless and faint, leaning upon 

my sword. 
Came there a certain lord, neat, 

trimly dressed, 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, 

new reaped. 
Showed like a stubble-land at har- 
vest-home ; 
He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb 

he held 
A pouncet-box, which ever and 

anon 
He gave his nose, and took't away 

again ; — 
Wlio therewith angry, when it next 

came there, 
Took it in snuflf: — and still he 

smiled and talked ; 
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies 

by, 

He called them untaught knaves, 

unmannerly. 
To bring a slovenly imhandsome 

corse 
Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 
With many holiday and lady tenns 
He questioned me; among the rest 

demanded 
My prisoners, in your majesty's be- 
half. 
I then, all smarting, with my woimds 

being cold, 
To be so pestered with a popinjay, 
Out of my grief and my impatience, 
Answered neglectingly, I know not 

what ; 
He should, or he should not; — for 

he made me mad 
To see him shine so brisk, and smell 

so sweet. 
And talk so like a waiting-gentle- 
woman. 
Of guns, and drums, and wounds, 

(God save the mark!) 
And telling me, the sovereign'st 

thing on earth 
Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise ; 
And that it was great pity, so it 

was. 
That villanous saltpetre should be 

digged 
Out of the bowels of the harmless 

earth. 
Which many a good tall fellow had 

destroyed 
So cowardly ; and but for these vile 

guns. 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. — PICTURES. 



287 



He would himself have been a sol- 
dier. 

This bald unjointed chat of his, my 
lord, 

I answered indirectly, as I said ; 

And I beseech you, let not his re- 
port 

Come current for an accusation, 

Betwixt my love and your high 
majesty. 

Shakspeake. 



THE FORGING OF THE AN- 
CHOR. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor 
forged, — 'tis at a white-heat 
now: 

The bellows ceased, the flames de- 
creased, though on the forge's 
brow 

The little flames still fitfully play 
through the sable mound, 

And fitfully you still may see the 
grim smiths ranking round, 

All clad in leather panoply, their 
broad hands only bare, — 

Some rest upon their sledges here, 
some work the windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle 

chains, the black mound 

heaves below. 
And red and deep a hundred veins 

burst out at every tliroe : 
It rises, roars, rends all outright, — 

O Vulcan, what a glow ! 

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting 

bright, — the high sun shines 

not so ! 
The high sun sees not, on the earth, 

such a fiery fearful show ; 
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent 

hearth, the ruddy lurid row 
Of smiths that stand, an ardent 

band, like men before the foe. 
As, quivering through his fleece of 

flame, the sailing monster, 

slow 
Sinks on the anvil ; — all ab6ut the 

faces fiery grow. 
" Hurrjjh ! " they shout, " leap out — 

leap out;" bang, bang, the 

sledges go ; 
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are 

hissing high and low ; — 



A hailing fount of fire is struck at 

every squashing blow. 
The leathern mail rebounds the 

hail, the rattling cinders strew 
The ground around ; at every bound 

the sweltering fountains flow. 
And thick and loud the swinking 

crowd at every stroke pant 

."Ho!" 

Leap out, leap out, my masters-, 

leajD out, and lay on load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor; — a 

bower thick and broad ; 
For a heart of oak is hanging on 

every blow, I bode. 
And I see the good ship riding, all 

in a perilous road, — 
The low reef roaring on her lee, — 

the roll of ocean poured 
From stem to stern, sea after sea; 

the mainmast by the board ; 
The bulwarks down, the rudder 

gone, the boats stove at the 

chains ! 
But courage still, brave mariners ! 

the bower yet remains. 
And not an inch to flinch he deigns, 

save when ye pitch sky high ; 
Then moves his head, as though he 

said, "Fear nothing — here 

am L" 

Swing in your strokes in order, let 
foot and hand keep time : 

Your blows make music sweeter far 
than any steeple's chime. 

But while you sling your sledges, 
sing, — and let the burthen be. 

The anchor is tlie anvil king, and 
royal craftsmen we ! 

Strike in, strike in — tlie sparks be- 
gin to dull their rustling red; 

Our hammers ring with sharijer din, 
our work will soon be sped. 

Our anchor soon must change his 
bed of fiery rich array. 

For a hammock at the roaring bows, 
or an oozy couch of clay ; 

Our anchor soon must change the 
lay of merry craftsmen here. 

For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave- 
away, and the sighing sea- 
man's cheer; 

When, weighing slow, at eve they go 
— far, far from love and home ; 

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, 
wail o'er the ocean foam. 



288 



PARNASSUS. 



In livid and obdurate gloom lie dark- 
ens down at last ; 

A shapely one lie is, and strong, as 
e'er from cat was cast. 

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if 
thou liadst life like me. 

What pleasures would thy toils re- 
ward beneath the deep green 
sea! 

O deep sea-diver, who might then 
behold such sights as thou ? 

The hoary monster's palaces! me- 
thinks what joy 'twere now 

To go plumb plunging down amid 
the assembly of the whales, 

And feel the churned sea round me 
boil beneath their scourging 
tails ! 

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight 
the fierce sea-unicorn, 

And send him foiled and bellowing 
back, for all his ivory horn ; 

To leave the subtile sworder-fish of 
bony blade forlorn; 

And for the ghastly-grinning shark 
to laugh his jaws to scorn ; 

To leap down on the kraken's 
back, where 'mid Norwegian 
isles 

He lies, a lubber anchorage for sud- 
den shallowec^ miles; 

Till snorting, like an under-sea vol- 
cano, off he rolls ; 

Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the 
far astonished shoals 

Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; 
or, haply in a cove, 

Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old 
to some Undine's love, 

To find the long-haired maidens ; or, 
hard by icy lands. 

To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon 
cerulean sands. 

O broad-armed fisher of the deep, 
whose sports can equal 
thine ? 

The Dolphin weighs a thousand 
tons, that tugs thy cable 
line; 

And night by night, 'tis thy delight, 
thy glory day by day, 

Through sable sea and breaker white, 
the giant game to play, — 

But shamer of our little sports ! for- 
give the name I gave, — 

A fisher's joy is to destroy, — thine 
office is to save. 



O lodger in the sea-king's halls! 

colli dst thou but understand 
Wliose be the white bones by thy 

side, — or who that drij^ping 

band, 
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, 

that round about thee bend, 
With sounds like breakers in a dream, 

blessing their ancient friend ; — 
O, couldst thou know what heroes 

glide with larger steps round 

thee. 
Thine iron side would swell with 

pride, — thou' dst leap within 

the sea ! 

Give honor to their memories who 

left the pleasant strand 
To shed their blood so freely for the 

love of father-land, — 
Who left their chance of quiet age 

and grassy churchyard grave 
So freely, for a restless bed amid the 

tossing wave ! 
O, though our anchor may not be all 

I have fondly sung. 
Honor him for their memory whose 

bones he goes among ! 

Samuel Fekgitson. 



THE ICE PALACE. 

Less worthy of applause, though 

more admired, 
Because a novelty, the work of man, 
Imperial mistress of the fur-clad 

Russ, 
Thy most magnificent and mighty 

freak, 
The wonder of the North. No forest 

fell 
When thou woiildst build ; no quarry 

sent its stores 
To enrich thy walls ; but thou didst 

hew the floods, 
And make thy marble of the glassy 

wave. 
Silently as a dream the fabric rose; 
No sound of hammer or of saw was 

there : 
Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts 
Were soon conjoined, nor other cem- 
ent asked 
Than water interfused to make 

them one. 
Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all 

hues, 



I 



PORTRAITS. — PERSONAL. - PICTURES. 



289 



Illumined every side : .i watery light 
Gleamed through the clear trans- 
parency, that seemed 
Another moou new risen, or meteor 

fallen 
From Heaven to Earth, of lambent 

flame serene. 
So stood the brittle prodigy : though 

smooth 
And slipi)ery the materials, yet frost- 
bound 
Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught 

within, 
That royal residence might well befit, 
For grandeur or for use. Long wavy 

wreaths 
Of flowers, that feared no enemy but 

warmth. 
Blushed on the panels. Mirror 

needed none 
\Vliei-e all was vitreous ; but in order 

due 
Convivial table and commodious seat, 
(Wliat seemed at least commodious 

seat, ) were there ; 
Sofa and couch and high-built 

throne august. 
The same lubricity was found in all. 
And all was moist to the warm 

touch ; a scene 
Of evanescent glory, once a stream. 
And soon to slide into a stream again. 

COWPEB. 

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

OtTR bugles sang truce; for the 
night-cloud had lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their 
watch in the sky ; 
And thousands liad sunk on the 
ground overpowered. 
The weary to sleep, and the 
wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my 
pallet of straw. 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that 
guarded the slain. 
At the dead of the night a sweet 
\ision I saw. 
And thrice ere the morning I 
dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's 
dreadful array 
Far, far I had roamed on a deso- 
late track : 

19 



'Twas autumn; and sunshine arose 
on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that 
welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed 
so oft 
In life's morning march, when 
my bosom was young : 
I heard my own mountain-goats 
bleating aloft. 
And knew the sweet strain that 
the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and 
fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping 
friends never to part : 
My little ones kissed me a thousand 
times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her 
fulness of heart. 

" Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art 
weary and worn : " 
And fain was their war-broken 
soldier to stay ; 
But sorrow returned with the dawn- 
ing of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear 
melted away. 

Campbell. 



THE PALM AND THE PINE. 

Beneath an Indian palm a girl 
Of other blood reposes ; 
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, 
Amid that wild of roses. 

Beside a northern pine a boy 
Is leaning fancy-bound, 
Nor listens where with noisy joy 
Awaits the impatient hound. 

Cool grows the sick and feverish 

calm, — 
Relaxed the frosty twine, — 
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, 
The palm-tree of the pine. 

As soon shall nature interlace 
Those dimly visioued boughs, 
As these young lovers face to face 
Renew their early vows ! 

MiLNES. 



290 



PARNASSUS. 



BURIAL OF MOSES, 



" And he buried him in a valley in the 
land of Moab, over against Beth-peor ; but 
no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this 
day." — Deut. xxxiv. 6. 

By Nebo's lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan's wave, 

In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave ; 

But no man built that sepulchre. 

And no man saw it e'er; 

For the angels of God upturned the 

sod. 
And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 
That ever passed on earth ; 
Yet no man heard the trampling. 
Or saw the train go forth : 
Noiselessly as the daylight 
Comes when the night is done, 
And the crimson streak on ocean's 

cheek 
Grows into the great sun ; 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 
Her crown of verdure weaves, 
And all the trees on all the hills 
Unfold their thousand leaves : 
So without sound of music 
Or voice of them that wept. 
Silently down from the mountain's 

crown 
The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gray Beth-peor' s height 

Out of his rocky eyry 

Looked on the wondrous sight; 

Perchance the lion stalking 

Still shuns that hallowed spot ; 

For beast and bird have seen and 

heard 
That which man knoweth not. 

But, when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades of the war, 

With arms reversed and muffled 

drums, 
Follow the funeral car : 
They show the banners taken ; 
They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterless 

steed, 
While peals the minute-gun. 






Amid the noblest of the land 

Men lay the sage to rest. 

And give the bard an honored place, 

With costly marbles drest. 

In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall. 

And the sweet choir sings, and the 

organ rings 
Along the emblazoned hall. 



This was the bi-avest warrior 

That ever buckled sword ; 

This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 

And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden pen. 

On the deathless page, truths half so 

sage 
As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor ? 

The hillside for his pall! 

To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers tall ! 

And the dark rock pines like tossing 

plumes 
Over his bier to wave. 
And God's own hand, in that lonely 

land. 
To lay him in his grave ! — 

In that deep grave without a name. 

Whence his vmcoffined clay 

Shall break again, — O wondrous 

thought ! 
Before the judgment-day, 
And stand, with glory wrapped 

around. 
On the hills he never trod. 
And speak of the strife that won our 

life 
With the incarnate Son of God. 

Oh lonely tomb in Moab's land! 

Oh dark Beth-peor's hill! 

Speak to these curious hearts of 

ours. 
And teach them to be still : 
God hath his mysteries of grace. 
Ways that we cannot tell. 
He hides them deep, like the secret 

sleep 
Of him he loved so well. 

Mrs. C. F. Alexander 



vn. 
NARRATIVE POEMS 

AND 

BALLADS. 



"Fragments of the lofty strain 
Float down the tide of years, 
As buoyant on the stonny main 
A parted wreck appears." —Scott. 



l^AEEATIYE POEMS AISTD BALLADS. 



HOUSE OF BUSYRAKE. 

KiJfGS, queens, lords, ladies, knights, 

and damsels great 
Were heaped together with the vul- 
gar sort, 
And mingled with the rascal rabble- 

ment 
Without respect of person or of port. 
To show Dan Cupid's power and 

great effort : 
And round about a border was 

entrailed 
Of broken bows and arrows shivered 

short. 
And a long bloody river through 

them rayled 
So lively and so like that living scene 

it failed. 

And at the upper end of that fair 

room 
There was an altar built of precious 

stone 
Of passing value and of great renown, 
On which there stood an image all 

alone. 
Of massy gold, which with his own 

light shone ; 
And wings it had with sundry colors 

dight, — 
More sundry colors than the proud 

pavone 
Bears in his boasted fan, or Iris 

bright 
When her discolored bow she spreads 

through heaven bright. 

BMndfold he was ; and in his cruel fist 
A mortal bow of arrows keen did 

hold, 
With which he shot at random when 

him list ; 
Some headed with sad lead, some 

with pure gold ; 



(Ah! man, beware how thou those 

darts behold !) 
A wounded dragon under him did lie, 
Whose hideous tail did his left foot 

infold. 
And with a shaft was shot through 

either eye 
That no man forth might draw, nor 

no man remedy. 

And underneath his feet was written 

thus : 
" Unto the Victor of the gods this he ;" 
And all the people in that ample 

house 
Did to that image bow their humble 

knee. 
And oft committed foul idolatry. 
That wondrous sight fair Britomart 

amazed, 
Nor seeing could her wonder satisfy, 
But evermore and more upon it gazed 
The while the passing brightness 

her frail senses dazed. 

Though as she backward cast her 

busy eye. 
To search each secret of that goodly 

stead. 
Over the door thus written she did 

spy, 

" Be hold: " she oft and oft it over- 
read. 
Yet could not find what sense it 

figured ; 
But whatso were therein, or writ, or 

meant. 
She was thereby no whit discouraged 
From prosecuting of her first intent, 
But forward with bold steps into 
the next room went. 

Much fairer than the former was 

that room. 
And richlier by many parts arrayed; 
2!)3 



294 



PAENASSUS. 



For not with arras, made in painful 
loom, 

But with pure 'gold, it all was over- 
laid, 

Wrought with wild antics, which 
tlieir follies played 

In the rich metal as they living were : 

A thousand monstrous forms therein 
were made, 

Such as false Love doth oft upon 
him wear ; 

For love in thousand monstrous 
forms doth oft appear. 

And all about the glistering walls 

were hung 
With warlike spoils and with victo- 

torious prayes 
Of mighty conquerors and captains 

strong, 
Wliich were whilom captived in their 

days 
To cruel love, and wrought their 

own decays. 
Their swords and spears were broke, 

and hauberks rent. 
And their proud garlands of trium- 
phant bays 
Trodden to dust with fury insolent, 
To show the victor's might and 

merciless intent. 

The warlike maid, beholding earnest- 
ly 
The goodly ordinance of this rich 

place, 
Did greatly wonder, nor did satisfy 
Her greedy eyes by gazing a long 

space. 
But more she marvelled that no 

footing's trace 
Nor wight appeared, but wasteful 

emptiness 
And solemn silence over all that 

space : 
Strange thing it seemed that none 

was to possess 
So rich purveyance, nor them keep 

with carefulness. 

And as she looked about, she did 
behold 

How over that same door was like- 
wise writ, 

"i?e hold, be hold,'''' and everywhere, 
''Behold;" 

That much she mused, yet could 
not construe it 



By any riddling skill, nor common 

wit. 
At last she spied at that room's 

upper end 
Another iron door, on which was 

writ, 
"jBe not too hold;" whereto though 

she did bend 
Her earnest mind, yet wist not what 

it might intend. 

Spenser 



THE GATE OF CAMELOT. 

So, when their feet were planted on 

the plain 
That broadened toward the base of 

Camelot, 
Far off they saw the silver-misty 

morn 
Rolling her smoke about the Royal 

mount, 
That rose between the forest and 

the field. 
At times the summit of the high 

city flashed; 
At times the spires and turrets half- 
way down 
Pricked through the mist: at times 

the great gate shone 
Only, that opened on the field below : 
Anon, the whole fair city had dis- 

api^eared. 

Then those who went with Gareth 

were amazed, 
One crying, "Let us go no further, 

lord. 
Here is a city of Enchanters, built 
By fairy Kings." The second echoed 

him, 
' ' Lord, we have heard from our wise 

men at home 
To Northward, that this King is not 

the King, 
But only changeling out of Fairyland, 
Who drave the heathen hence by 

sorcery 
And Merlin's glamour." Then the 

first again, 
"Lord, there is no such city any- 
where, 
But all a vision." 

Gareth answered them 
With laughter, swearing he had 
glamour enow 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



295 



In his own blood, his princedom, 

youth and hopes, 
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian 

sea; 
So pushed them all unwilling toward 

the gate. 
And there was no gate like it under 

heaven. 
For barefoot on the keystone, which 

was lined 
And rippled like an ever-fleeting 

wave, 
The Lady of the Lake stood : all her 

dress 
Wept from her sides as water flow- 
ing away; 
But like the cross her great and 

goodly arms 
Stretched under all the cornice, and 

upheld : 
And drops of water fell from either 

hand ; 
And down from one a sword was 

hung, from one 
A censer, either worn with wind 

and storm; 
And o'er her breast floated the sacred 

fish; 
And in the space to left of her and 

right. 
Were Arthur's wars in weird devices 

done, 
New things and old co-twisted, as if 

Time 
Were nothing, so inveterately, that 

men 
Were giddy gazing there ; and over 

all 
High on the top were those three 

Queens, the friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at 

his need. 

Then those with Gareth for so long 

a sijace 
Stared at the figures, that at last it 

seemed 
The dragon-bough ts and elvish em- 

blemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine and 

curl : they called 
To Gareth, "Lord, the gateway is 

alive." 

And Gareth likewise on them fixt 
his eyes 
So long, that even to him they 
seemed to move. 



Out of the city a blast of music pealed. 

Back from the gate started the three, 
to whom 

From out thereunder came an an- 
cient man. 

Long-bearded, saying, "Who be ye, 
my sons?" 

Then Gareth, "We be tillers of 

the soil, 
Who leaving share in furrow, come 

to see 
The glories of our King : but these, 

my men 
(Your city moved so weirdly in the 

mist), 
Doubt if the King be King at all, or 

come 
From fairyland; and whether this 

be built 
By magic, and by fairy Kings and 

Queens ; 
Or whether there be any city at all. 
Or all a vision : and this music now 
Hath scared them both ; but tell thou 

these the truth." 

Then that old Seer made answer 

playing on him 
And saying, " Sou, I have seen the 

good sliip sail 
Keel upward and mast downward in 

the heavens. 
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air : 
And here is truth ; but an it please 

thee not. 
Take thou the truth as thou hast 

told it me. 
For truly, as thou sayest, a Fairy 

King 
And Fairy Queens have built the 

city, son ; 
They came from out a sacred moun- 
tain-cleft 
Towai'd the sunrise, each with harp 

in hand. 
And built it to the music of their 

harps. 
And as thou sayest it is enchanted, 

son, 
For there is nothing in it as it seems, 
Saving the King ; though some there 

be that liold 
The King a shadow, and the city real : 
Yet take thou heed of him, for so 

thou pass 
Beneath this archway, then wilt 

thou become 



296 



PARNASSUS. 



A thrall to liis eucliaiitments, for 

the King 
Will bind theeby such vows, as is a 

shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet 

the which 
No man can keep ; but, so thou dread 

to swear, 
Pass not beneath this gateway, but 

abide 
Without, among the cattle of the field, 
For, an ye heard a music, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the 

city is built 
To music, therefore never built at all. 
And therefore built forever." 

Gareth spake 
Angered, " Old Master, reverence 

thine own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, 

and seems 
Well-nigh as long as thou art statured 

tall! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that 

hath been 
To thee fair-spoken ? " 

But the Seer replied, 
" Know ye not then the Eiddling of 

the Bards? 
' Confusion, and illusion, and rela- 
tion. 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion' ? 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest 

me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art 

not who 
Thou seemest, but I know thee who 

thou art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the 

King, 
WTio cannot brook the shadow of 

any lie." 

Unmockiugly the mocker ending 
here 

Turned to the right, aud past along 
the plain ; 

Whom Gareth looking after, said, 
"My men. 

Our one white lie sits like a little 
ghost 

Here on the threshold of our enter- 
prise. 

l-iet love be blamed for it, not she, 
nor I : 

Well, we will make amends." 



With all good cheer 
He spake and laughed, then entered 

with his twain 
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces 
And stately, rich in emblem and the 

work 
Of ancient kings who did their days 

in stone; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at 

Arthur's court, 
Knowing all arts, had touched, and 

everywhere 
At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with 

lessening peak 
And pinnacle, and had made it spire 

to heaven. 
And ever and anon a laiight would 

pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall : his 

arms 
Clashed ; and the sound was good to 

Gareth' s ear. 
And out of bower and casement 

shyly glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome 

stars of love ; 
And all about a healthful people 

stept 
As in the presence of a gracious 

king. 

Tennyson. 



THE CEOWNING OF AETHUR. 

There came to Cameliard, 
With Gawin and young Modred, her 

two sons, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, 

Bellicent; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, 

the King 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat 

at meat, 

" A doubtful throne is ice on 
summer seas. 

Ye come from Arthur's court. Vic- 
tor his men 

Eeport him! Yea, but ye, — think 
ye this king, — 

So many those that hate him, and 
so strong. 

So few his knights, however brave 
they be, — 

Hath body enow to hold his foemen 
down?" 



NAKRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



297 



•' O King," she cried, " and I will 
tell tliee : few, 

Few, but all brave, all of one mind 
with him ; 

For I was near him when the savage 
yells 

Of Utlier's peerage died, and Arthur 
sat 

Crowned on the dais, and his war- 
riors cried, 

' Be thou the king, and we will work 
thy will 

Wlio love thee.' Then the King iu 
low deep tones, 

And simple words of great author- 
ity, 

Bound them by so strait vows to his 
own self. 

That when they rose, knighted from 
kneeling, some 

"Were i>ale as at the passing of a 
ghost, 

Some flushed, and others dazed, as 
one who wakes 

Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 



" But when he spake and cheered 
his Table Round 

With large, divine and comfortable 
words 

Beyond my tongue to tell thee, — I 
beheld 

From eye to eye through all their 
Order flash 

A momentary likeness of the King : 

And ere it left their faces, through 
the cross 

And those around it and the Cruci- 
fied, 

Down from the casement over Ar- 
thur, smote 

Flame-color, vert and azure, in three 
rays. 

One falling upon each of three fair 
queens, 

Who stood in silence near his throne, 
the friends 

Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with 
bright 

Sweet faces, who will help him at 
his need. 



" And there I saw mage Merlin, 
whose vast wit 
And hundred winters arc hut as the 
hands 



Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 
"And near him stood the Lady 

of the Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than 

his own, — 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, 

wonderful. 
She gave the King his huge cross- 

hilted sword, 
Whereby to drive the heathen out: 

a mist " 

Of incense curled about her, and 

her face 
Well-nigh was hidden in the minster 

gloom ; 
But there was heard among the 

holy hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she 

dwells 
Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever 

storms 
May shake the world, and when the 

surface rolls, 
Hath power to walk the waters like 

our Lord. 



" There likewise I beheld Excall- 

bur 
Before him at his crowning borne, 

the sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the 

lake, 
And Arthur rowed across and took 

it, — rich 
With jewels, elfin Urim, on the 

liilt. 
Bewildering heart and eye, — the 

blade so bright 
That men are blinded by it; — on 

one side, 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all 

this world, 
' Take me ; ' but turn the blade and 

ye shall see, 
And written in the speech ye speak 

yourself, 
' Cast me away ! ' And sad was 

Arthur's face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counselled 

him, 
' Take thou and strike ! the time to 

cast away 
Is yet far-off.' So this great brand 

the king 
Took, and by this will beat his foe- 
men down." 

Tennyson. 



298 



PARNASSUS. 



ALFKED THE HARPER. 

Daek fell the night, the watch was 

set, 
The host was idly spread, 
The Danes around their watchfires 

met. 
Caroused, and fiercely fed. 

The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves, 
And Guth'rum, king of all, 
Devoured the flesh of England's 

beeves. 
And laughed at England's fall. 
Each warrior proud, each Danish 

earl, 
In mail and wolf-skin clad. 
Their bracelets white with plundered 

pearl. 
Their eyes with triumph mad. 

From Humber-land to Severn-land, 

And on to Tamar stream. 

Where Thames makes green the 

towery strand. 
Where Medway's waters gleam, — 
With hands of steel and mouths of 

flame 
They raged the kingdom through ; 
And where the Norseman sickle 

came, 
No crop but hunger grew. 

They loaded many an English horse 

With wealth of cities fair; 

They dragged from many a father's 

corse 
The daughter by her hair. 
And English slaves, and gems and 

gold, 
Were gathered round the feast ; 
Till midnight in their woodland hold. 
Oh ! never that riot ceased. 

In stalked a warrior tall and rude 

Before the strong sea-kings ; 

'* Ye Lords and Earls of Odin's 

brood, 
Without a harper sings. 
He seems a simple man and poor. 
But well he sounds the lay; 
And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure, 
Will ye the song repay." 

In trod the bard with keen cold look, 
And glanced along the board. 
That with the shout and war-cry 
shook 



Of many a Danish lord. 
But thirty brows, inflamed and stern, 
Soon bent on him their gaze. 
While calm he gazed, asif to learn 
Who chief deserved his praise. 

Loud Guthrum spake, — "Nay, gaze 

not thus. 
Thou Harper weak and poor ! 
By Thor ! who bandy looks with us 
Must worse than looks endure. 
Sing high the praise of Denmark's 

host. 
High praise each dauntless Earl ; 
The brave who stun this English 

coast 
With war's imceasing whirl," 

The Harper slowly bent his head, 
And touched aloud the string ; 
Then raised his face, and boldly 

said, 
" Hear thou my lay, O king! 
High praise from every mouth of 

man 
To all who boldly strive, 
Who fall where first the fight began, 
And ne'er go back alive. 

"Fill high your cups, and swell the 

shout, 
At famous Regnar's name! 
Who sank his host in bloody rout, 
When he to Humber came. 
His men were chased, his sons were 

slain, 
And he was left alone. 
They bound him in an iron chain 
Upon a dungeon stone. 

"With iron links they bound him 
fast ; 

With snakes they filled the hole, 

That made his flesh their long re- 
past, 

And bit into his soul. 

" Great chiefs, why sink in gloom 

your eyes ? 
Why champ your teeth in pain ? 
Still lives the song though Regnar 

dies ! 
Fill high your cups again. 
Ye too, perchance, O Norsemen 

lords ! 
Who fought and swayed so long, 
Shall soon but live in minstrel words, 
And owe your names to song. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



299 



" Til is land has graves by thousands 

more 
Than that where Eegnar lies. 
WhcMi conquests fade, and rule is o'er, 
The sod must close your eyes. 
How soon, who knows ? Not chief, 

nor bard ; 
And yet to me 'tis given, 
To see your foreheads deeply scarred. 
And guess the doom of Heaven. 

" I may not read or when or how, 
But, Earls and Kings, be sure 
I see a blade o'er every brow. 
Where pride now sits secure. 
Fill high the cups, raise loud the 

strain ! 
When chief and monarch fall. 
Their names in song shall breathe 

again, 
And thrill the feastful hall." 

Grim sat the chiefs; one heaved a 

groan, 
And 07ie grew pale with dread, 
His iron mace was grasped by one, 
By one his wine was shed. 
And Guthrum cried, "Nay, bard, no 

more 
We hear thy boding lay ; 
Make drunk the song with spoil and 

gore ! 
Light up the joyous fray ! " 

" Quick throbs my brain," — so burst 

tlie song, — 
" To hear the strife once more. 
The mace, the axe, they rest too long ; 
Earth cries. My thirst is sore. 
More blithely twang the strings of 

bows 
Than strings of harps in glee ; 
Red wounds are lovelier than the rose, 
Or rosy Wps to me. 

"Oil ! fairer ihan a field of flowers. 
When flowers in England grew, 
Would be the battle's marshalled 

powers. 
The plain of carnage new. 
With all its deaths before my soul 
The vision rises fair; 
Raise loud the song, and drain the 

bowl ! 
I would that I were there!" 

Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye 
Rolled fiercely round the throng; 



It seemed two crashing hosts were 

nigh, 
Wliose shock aroused the song. 
A golden cup King Guthrum gave 
To him who strongly played ; 
And said, "I won it from the slave 
Who once o'er England swayed." 

King Guthrum cried, "'Twas Al- 
fred's own ; 
Thy song befits the brave : 
The King who cannot guard his 

throne 
Nor wine nor song shall have." 
The minstrel took the goblet bright. 
And said, " I drink the wine 
To him who owns by justest right 
The cup thou bid'st be mine. 

"To him, your Lord, Oh shout ye 

all! 
His meed be deathless praise ! 
The King who dares not nobly fall. 
Dies basely all his days." 

"The praise thou speakest," Guth- 
rum said, 

" With sweetness fills mine ear; 

For Alfred swift before me fled. 

And left me monarch here. 

The royal coward never dared 

Beneath mine eye to stand. 

Oh, would that now this feast he 
shared. 

And saw me rule his land! " 

Then stern the minstrel rose, and 

spake, 
And gazed upon the King, — 
" Not now the golden cup I take, 
Nor more to thee I sing. 
Another day, a happier hour. 
Shall bring me here again : 
The cup shall stay in Guthrum' s 

power 
Till I demand it then." 

The Harper turned and left the 

shed, 
Nor bent to Guthrum's crown; 
And one who marked his visage said 
It wore a ghastly frown. 
The Danes ne'er saw that Harper 

more. 
For soon as morning rose, 
Upon their camp King Alfred bore, 
And slew ten thousand foes. 

John Steklino 



300 



PARNASSUS. 



GARCI PEREZ DE VARGAS. 

King Fertlinand alone did stand one 

day upon the hill, 
Surveying all his leaguer, and the 

ramparts of Seville ; 
The sight was grand when Ferdinand 

by proud Seville was lying, 
O'er tower and tree far off to see the 

Christian banners flying. 

Down chanced the king his eye to 
fling, where far the camp be- 
low 

Two gentlemen along the glen were 
riding soft and slow ; 

As void of fear each cavalier seemed 
to be riding there. 

As some strong hound may pace 
around the roebuck's thicket 
lair. 

It was Don Garci Perez; and he 
would breathe the air. 

And he had ta'en a knight with him 
that as lief had been else- 
where : 

For soon this knight to Garci said, 
"Ride, ride, or we are lost! 

I see the glance of helm and lance, — 
it is the Moorish host ! " 

The Lord of Yargas turned him 

round, his trusty squire was 

near ; 
The helmet on his brow he bound, 

his gauntlet grasped the spear ; 
With that upon his saddle-tree he 

planted him right steady, — 
"Now come," quoth he, "whoe'er 

they be, I trow they'll find us 

ready." 

By this the knight that rode with 

him had tiirned his horse's 

head, 
And up the glen in fearful trim unto 

the camp had fled. 
"Ha! gone?" quoth Garci Perez: 

he smiled, and said no more, 
But slowly on with his esquire rode 

as he rode before. 

It was the Count Lorenzo, just then 

Itliappened so, 
He took his stand by Ferdinand, and 

with him gazed below ; 



" My liege," quoth he, " seven Moors 

I see a-coming from the wood, 
Now bring they all the blows they 

may. I trow they'll find as 

good; 
For it is Don Garci Perez, — if his 

cognizance they know, 
I guess it will be little pain to give 

them blow for blow." 

The Moors from forth the greenwood 
came riding one by one, 

A gallant troop with armor resplen- 
dent in the sun ; 

Full haughty was their bearing, as 
o'er the sward they came; 

But the calm Lord of Vargas, his 
march was still the same. 

They stood drawn up in order, while 

past them all rode he ; 
But when upon his shield they saw 

the sable blazonry. 
And the wings of the Black Eagle, 

that o'er his crest were spread. 
They knew Don Garci Perez, and 

never word they said. 

He took the casque from off his brow, 
and gave it to the squire ; 

" My friend," quoth he, "no need I 
see why I my brows should 
tire." 

But as he doffed the helmet he saw 
his scarf was gone, 

"I've dropped it, sure," quoth Gar- 
ci, "when I put my helmet 
on." 

He looked around and saw the scarf, 

for still the Moors were near. 
And they had picked it from the 

sward, and looped it on a spear. 
"These Moors," quoth Garci Perez, 

" uncourteous Moors they be, — 
Now, by my soul, the scarf they 

stole, yet durst not question 

me! 

Now reach once more my helmet." 

The esquire said him nay, 
" For a silken string why should ye 

fling perchance your life 

away?" 
" I had it from my lady," quoth 

Garci, " long ago. 
And never Moor that scarf, be sure, 

in proud Seville shall show." 



NAERATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



But when the Moslem saw him, they 
stood in firm array : 

He rode among their armed throng, 
he rode right furiously ; 

" Stand, stand, ye thieves and rob- 
bers, lay down my lady's 
pledge!" 

He cried ; and ever as he cried they 
felt his falchion's edge. 

That day the Lord of Vargas came 

to the camp alone ; 
The scarf, his lady's largess, around 

his breast was thrown ; 
Bare was his head, his sword was red, 

and from his pommel strung 
Seven turbans green, sore hacked I 

ween, before Don Garci hung, 

LocKHART : Spanish Ballads. 



BATTLE OF HARLAW. 

Now hand your tongue, baith wife 
and carle, 
And listen great and sma'. 
And I will sing of Glenallan's 
Earl 
That fought on the red Harlaw. 

The cronach's cried on Bennachie, 
And down the Don and a', 

Andhielandandlawlandmaymourn- 
f u' be 
For the sair field of Harlaw. 

They saddled a hundred milk-white 
steeds. 
They hae bridled a hundred 
black. 
With a chafron of steel on each 
horse's head, 
And a good knight upon his back. 

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 

A mile but barely ten, 
Wlien Donald came branking down 
the brae 

Wi' twenty thousand men. 

Their tartans they were waving 
wide. 
Their glaives were glancing 
clear, 
The pibrochs rung frae side to 
side. 
Would deafen ye to hear. 



301 

his stirrups 



The great Earl in 
stood. 

That Highland host to see : 
" Now here a knight that's stout and 
good 
May prove a jeopardie : 

" What wouldst thou do, my squire 
so gay. 

That rides beside my reyne, — 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day. 

And I were Roland Cheyne ? 

" To turn the rein were sin and 
shame. 
To fight were wondrous peril, — 
What would ye do now, Roland 
Cheyne, 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl? " 

" Were I Glenallan's Earl this 
tide. 
And ye were Roland Cheyne, 
The spur should be in my horse's 
side. 
And the bridle upon his mane. 

"If they hae twenty thousand 
blades. 
And we twice ten times ten, 
Yet they hae but their tartan 
plaids. 
And we are mail-clad men. 

"My horse shall ride through ranks 
sae rude, 
As through the moorland fern, — 
Then ne'er let the gentle Norman 

blude 
Grow cauld for Highland kerne." 

Scott. 



KINMONT WILLIE. 

Oh, have ye na heard o' the fause 
Sakelde ? 
Oh, have ye na heard o' the keen 
Lord Scroope ? 
How they hae ta'en baukl Kinmont 
Willie, 
On Ilaribee to hang him up ? 

Had Willie had but twenty men, 
But twenty men as stout as he, 

Fause Sakelde had never the Kin- 
mont ta'en, 
Wi' eightscore in his com2>auie. 



302 



PARNASSUS. 



They band his legs beneath the steed, 
They tied his hands behind his 
back ; 
They guarded him, fivesome on each 
side. 
And they brought him ower the 
Liddel-rack. 

Tliey led him through the Liddel- 
rack, 
And also through the Carlisle 
sands ; 
They brought him to Carlisle eastell. 
To be at my Lord Scroope's com- 
mands. 

" My hands are tied, but my tongue 
is free, 
And whae will dare this deed 
avow? 
Or answer by the Border law ? 
Or answer to the bauld Buc- 
cleuch?" 

"Now baud thy tongue, thou rank 
reiver ! 
There's never a Scot shall set thee 
free: 
Before ye cross my castle yate, 
I trow ye shall take farewell o' me." 

"Fearnaye that, my lord," quoth 
Willie. 
"By the faith o' my body. Lord 
Scroope," he said, 
" I never yet lodged in a hostelrie. 
But I paid my lawing before I 
gaed." — 

Now word is gane to the bauld 
Keeper, 
In Branksome Ha', wher that he 
lay, 
That Lord Scroope has ta'en the 
Kinmont Willie, 
Between the hours of night and day. 

He has ta'en the table wi' his hand. 
He garr'd the red wine spring on 
hie, — 
"Now Christ's curse on my head," 
he said, 
" But avenged of Lord Scroope, 
I'll be! 

'' O is my basnet a widow's curch? 
Or my lance a wand of the willow- 
tree? 



Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand. 
That an English lord sets light by 
me! 

" And have they ta'en him, Kinmont 

Willie, 

Against the truce of Border tide ? 

And forgotten that the bauld Buc- 

cleuch 

Is keeper here on the Scottish side ? 

"And have they e'en ta'en him. 
Kinmont Willie, 
Withouten either dread or fear? 
And forgotten that the bauld Buc- 
cleuch 
Can back a steed, or shake a 
spear? 

" O were there war between the 
lands. 
As well I wot that there is none, 
I would slight Carlisle eastell high, 
Though it were builded of marble 
stone. 

" I would set that eastell in a low,* 
And sloken it with English 
blood ! 
There's never a man in Cumber- 
land, 
Should ken where Carlisle eastell 
stood. 

"But since nae war's between the 
lands. 
And there is peace, and peace 
should be ; 
I'll neither harm English lad or 
lass. 
And yet the Kinmont freed shall 
be!" 

He has called him forty Marchmen 
bauld. 
Were kinsmen to the bauld Buc- 
cleuch ; 
With spur on heel, and splent on 
spauld, 
And gleuves of green, and feath- 
ers blue. 

There were five and five before them 
a', 
Wi' hunting-horns and bugles 
bright : 

* Flame. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



303 



A.nd five and five came wi' Buc- 
cleuch, 
Like warden's men, arrayed for 
fight. 

And five and five, like a mason gang, 

Tliat carried the ladders lang and 

hie; 

And five and five, like broken men; 

And so they reached the Wood- 

houselee. 

And as we crossed the Bateable Land, 
"Wlien to the English side we held. 

The first o' men that we met wi', 
Whae sould it be but fause Sa- 
kelde ? 

"Where be ye gaun, ye hunters 
keen?" 
Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to 
me!" — 
" We go to hunt an English stag, 
Has trespassed on the Scots coun- 
trie." 

"Wliere be ye gaun, ye marshal 
men?" 
Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell 
me true!" 
" We go to catch a rank reiver, 
Has broken faith wi' the bauld 
Buccleuch." 

" Wliere are ye gaun, ye mason lads, 
Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie ? " 

" We gang to herry a corbie's nest, 
That wons not far frae Wood- 
houselee." 

•' Where be ye gaun, ye broken 

men?" 

Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell 

to me!" — 

Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band. 

And the nevir a word of lore had he. 

"Why trespass ye on the English 
side? 
Row-footed outlaws, stand! " quo' 
he; 
The nevir a word had Dickie to say, 
Sae he thrust the lance through 
his fause bodie. 

Then on we held for Carlisle toun, 
And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden 
we crossed ; 



The water was great and meikle of 
spait. 
But the nevir a horse nor man 
we lost. 

And when we reached the Stane- 
shaw-bank, 
The wind was rising loud and hie ; 
And there the laird garr'd leave our 
steeds. 
For fear that they should stamp 
and nie. 

And when we left the Staneshaw- 
bank, 
The wind began full loud to blaw ; 
But 'twas wind and weet, and fire 
and sleet. 
When we came beneath the castle 
wa'. 

We crept on knees, and held our 
breath. 
Till we placed the ladders against 
the wa' ; 
And sae ready was Buccleuch hira- 
sell 
To mount the first before us a'. 

He has ta'en the watchman by the 
throat, 
He flung him down upon the lead — 
" Had there not been peace between 
our lands, 
Upon the other side thou liadst 
gaed! 

"Now sound out, trumpets!" quo' 
Buccleuch ; 
"Let's waken Lord Scroope right 
merrilie!" 
Then loud the warden's trumpet 
blew — 
O wha dare meddle wV me f 

Then speedilie to wark we gaed. 
And raised the slogan ane and a', 

And cut a hole through a sheet of 
lead. 
And so we wan to the castle ha'. 

They thought King James and a' his 
men 
Had won the house wi' bow and 
spear ; 
It was but twenty Scots and ten, 
That put a thousand in sic a 
stear ! 



804 



PARNASSUS. 



Wi' coulters, and wi' forehammers, 
We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, 

Untill we came to the inner prison. 
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did 
lie. 

A-nd when we cam to the lower 
prison, 
Wliere Willie o' Kinmont he did 
lie, — 
"O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont 
Willie, 
Upon the morn that thou's to 
die?" 

"01 sleep saf t, and I wake aft ; 
It's lang since sleeping was fley'd 
f rae me ! 
Gie my service back to my wife and 
bairns, 
And a' gude fellows that spier for 
me." 

Then red Rowan has hente him up, 
The starkest man in Teviotdale — 

" Abide, abide now. Red Rowan, 
Till of my Lord Scroope I take 
farewell. 

" Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord 
Scroope ! 
My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!" 
he cried — 
" I'll pay you for my lodging maill. 
When first we meet on the Border 
side." 

Then shoulder high, with shout and 
cry. 
We bore him down the ladder lang ; 
A-t every stride Red Rowan made, 
I wot the Kinmont' s aims played 
clang ! 

"O mony a time," quo' Kinmont 

Willie, 

" I've ridden horse baith wild and 

wood ; 

But a rougher beast than Red Rowan 

I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode, 

"And mony a time," quo' Kinmont 
Willie, 
"I've pricked a horse out oure 
the furs ; 
But since the day I backed a steed, 
I never wore sic cumbrous 
spurs!" 



We scarce had won the Staneshaw- 
bank, 
Wlien a' the Carlisle bells were 
rung, 
And a thousand men on horse and 
foot. 
Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope 
along. 

Buccleuch has turned to Eden Wa- 
ter, 
Even where it flowed frae bank to 
bi'im. 
And he has plunged in wi' a' his 
band. 
And safely swam them through 
the stream. 

He turned him on the other side, 
And at Lord Scroope his glove 
flung he — 
"If ye like na my visit in merry 
England, 
In fair Scotland come visit me ! " 

All sore astonished stood Lord 
Scroope, 
He stood as still as rock of stane ; 
He scarcely dared to trust his eyes. 
When through the water they had 
gane. 

"He is either himsell a devil frae 
hell. 
Or else his mother a witch maun 
be; 
I wadna»have ridden that wan watei 
For a' the gowd in Christentie." 
Scott's Boeder Minstbelsy 



SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 

Of all the rides since the birth of 

time. 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of 

brass. 
Witch astride of a human back, 
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 
heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried"! 

in a cart 
By the women of Marblehe-.d I 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND IJALLADS. 



305 



Body of turkey, liead of owl, 
Wings a-droop like a raiiiei-oii fowl, 
Feathered and ruHled in every part. 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
Scores of women, old and young. 
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue. 
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane. 
Shouting and singing the shrill re- 
frain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morjjle'ead!" 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips. 
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 
Bacchus round some antique vase, 
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare. 
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 
With conch-shells blowing and fish- 
horns' twang. 
Over and over the Mi^nads sang : 
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Small pity for him ! — He sailed away 
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur 

Bay, - 
Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
With his own town's-people on her 

deck I 
"Lay by! lay by!" they called to 

him. 
Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! 
Brag of yoia- catch of fish again! " 
^nd off he sailed through the fog 

and rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 

heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried 

in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid. 
Looked from the rocks of Marble- 
head 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
Looked for the coming that might 

not be ! 
What did the winds and the searbirds 
say 

20 



Of the cruel captain who sailed 
away ? — 
Old Floyd Ireson for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried 
in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Through the street, on either side, 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives 

gray. 
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 
Hulks of old sailors run aground, 
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and 

cane. 
And cracked with curses the hoarse 

refrain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 

corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead!" 

Sweetly along the Salem road 
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 
Little the Avicked skipper knew 
Of the fields so green and the sky so 

blue. 
Riding (here in his sorry trim, 
Like an Indian idol glum and grim, 
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear 
Of voices shouting, far and near: 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead!" 

"Hea.r me, neighbors!" at last he 

cried, — 
" What to me is this noisy ride? 
What is the shame that clothes the 

skin 
To the nameless horror that lives 

within ? 
Waking or sleeping, I see a wi-eck. 
And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 
Hate me and curse me, — I only 

dread 
The hand of God and the face of the 

dead!" 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 

heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried 

in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 



306 



PARNASSUS. 



Then the wife of the skipper lost at 

sea 
Said, '• God has touched him ! — why 

should we? " 
Said an old wife mourning her only 

son, 
" Cut the rogue's tether and let him 

run!" 
So with soft relentings and rude ex- 
cuse, 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him 

loose, 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in. 
And left him alone with his shame 

and sin. 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hai'd 

heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried 

in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 
Whittier. 



WIILLIAM OF CLOUDESLE. 

The king called his best archers 
To the buttes with him to go, 
"I will see these fellows shoot," he 
said, 
' ' In the north have wrought this 
wo." 

The king's bowmen busk them blyve. 
And the queen's archers alsoe. 

So did these three wight yeomen 
With them they thought to go. 

There twice or thrice they shoot 
about 

For to assay their hand, 
There was no shot these yeomen shot 

That any prick might them stand. 

Then spake William of Cloudesle, 
"By him that for me died, 

I hold him never no good archer 
That shooteth at buttes so wide." 

"Whereat?" then said our king, 

" I pray thee tell me : " 
" At such a butte, sir," he said, 

"As men use in my countree." 

William went into a field. 
And his two brethren with him, 

There they set up hazle rods. 
Twenty score paces between. 



"I hold him an archer," said Clou- 
desle, 
" That yonder waude cleaveth iu 
two." 
"Here is none such," said the king, 
" Nor none that can so do." 

"I shall assay, sir," said Cloudesle', 

" Or that I farther go." 
Cloudesle with a bearing arrow 

Clave the wand in two. 

" Thou art the best archer," then 
said -the king, 
" Forsooth that ever I see ; " — 
"And yet for your love," said Wil- 
liam, 
" I will do more mastery, 

" I have a son is seven years old, 

He is to me full dear ; 
I will him tie to a stake 

All shall see that be here. 

" And lay an apple upon his head, 
And go six score paces him fro, 

And I myself with a broad arrow 
Shall cleave the apple in two." 

"Now haste thee then," said the 
king, 

" By him that died on a tree ; 
But if thou do not as thou hast said, 

Hanged shalt thou be. 

" And thou touch his head or gown. 
In sight that men may see, 

By all the saints that be in Heaven, 
I shall hang you all three ! " 

"That I have promised," said Wil- 
liam, 

" I will it never forsake ; " 
And there even before the king, 

In the earth he drove a stake, 

And bound thereto his eldest son, , 
And bade him stand still thereat. 

And turned the child's head from 
him. 
Because he should not start. 



An apple upon his head he set. 
And then his bow he bent ; 

Six score paces were out-met. 
And thither Cloudesle went. 



I 



N'ARRATIVK POKMS AND BALF.ADS. 



307 



There lie drew out a fair broad arrow, 
His bow was great and long, 

He set that arrow in his bow. 
That was both stiff and strong. 

He prayed the people that was there, 
That they would still stand, 

** For he that shooteth for such a 
wager, 
Behoveth a steadfast hand." 

Much people prayed for Cloudesle', 
That his life saved might be. 

And when he made him ready to 
shoot 
There was many a weeping eye. 

Thus Cloudesle cleft the apple in two 
That many a man might see ; 

"Over-gods forbode," then said the 
king, 
" That thou should shoot at me ! 

" I give thee eighteen pence a day, 
And my bow shalt thou bear. 

And over all the north countiy 
I make thee chief rider." 

Anon. 

THE HEIR OF LINN'S. 

PART THE FIRST. 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen. 
To sing a song I Avill beginne : 
It is of a lord of faire Scotland, 
Which was the unthrifty heire of 
Linne. 

His father was a right good lord. 
His mother a lady of high degree ; 
But they, alas ! were dead him f roe. 
And he lov'd keeping companie. 

To spend the day with merry cheer, 
To drink and revell every night. 
To card and dice from eve to morn. 
It was, I ween, his heart's delight. 

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar. 
To alway spend and never spare, 
I wott, an' it were the king himself, 
Of gold and fee he mote be bare. 

So fares the unthrifty lord of Linne, 
Till all his gold is gone and spent: 
And he maun sell his landes so broad. 
His house, and landes, and all his rent. 



His father liad a kecni stewarcle. 
And John o' the Scales was called 

he: 
But John is become a gentel-man. 
And John has gott both gold and fee. 

Sayes " Welcome, welcome. Lord of 

Linne, 
Let nought disturb thy merry cheer: 
If thou wilt sell thy landes so broad. 
Good store of gold I'll give thee 

here." 

"My gold is gone, my money is 

spent ; 
My lande nowe take it unto thee : 
Give me the golde, good John o' the 

Scales, 
And thine for aye my lande shall 

be." 

Then John he did him to record 

draw. 
And John he cast him a gods- 

pennie ; 
But for every pound that John 

agreed, 
The lande, I wis, was well worth 

three. 

He told him the gold upon the borde, 
He was right glad his land to winne ; 
" The gold is thine, the land is mine, 
And now I'll be the lord of Linne." 

Thus he hath sold his land so broad, 
Both hill and holt, and moor and 

fen. 
All but a poor and lonesome lodge, 
That stood far off in a lonely glen. 

For so he to his father hight. 

" My son, when I am gone," said he, 

" Then thou wilt spend thy land so 

broad, 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free. 

" But swear me now upon the rood, 
That lonesome lodge thou' It never 

spend ; 
For when all the world doth frown 

on thee. 
Thou there shalt find a faithful 

friend." 

The heir of Linue is full of gold : 
"And come with me, my friends," 
said he, 



'60S 



PA KN ASS us. 



" Let's driuk, and rant, and merry 

make, 
And he that spares, ne'er mote be 

thee." 

They ranted, drank, and merry 

made, 
Till all his gold it waxed thin ; 
And then his friends they slunk 

away; 
They left the unthrifty heir of 

Linne. 

He had never a penny left in his 

purse, 
Never a penny left but three, 
And one was brass, another was lead, 
And another it was white money. 

" Now well-a-day " said the heir of 

Linue, 
" Now well-a-day, and woe is me, 
For when I was the lord of Linne, 
I never wanted gold nor fee. 

*' But many a trusty friend have I, 
And why should I feel dole or care ? 
I'll borrow of them all by turns. 
So need I not be never bare." 

But one I wis, was not at home ; 
Another had paid his gold away ; 
Another called him thriftless loon. 
And bade him sharply wend his way. 

"Now well-a-day," said the heir of 

Linne, 
"Now well-a-day, and woe is me; 
For when I had my landes so broad, 
On ine they lived right merrily. 

" To beg my bread from door to door, 
I wis, it were a burning shame ; 
To rob and steal it were a sin ; 
To work, my limbs I cannot frame. 

" Now I' 11 away to the lonesome lodge. 
For there my father bade me wend: 
When all the world should frown on 

me 
I there should find a trusty friend." 

PART THE SECOND. 

Away then hied the heir of Linue, 
O'er hill and holt, and moor and fen, 
Until he came to the lonesome lodge, 
That stood so low in a lonely glen. 



He looked up, he looked down. 
In hope some comfort for to win ; 
But bare and lothly were the walls ; 
" Here's sorry cheer," quo' the heir 
of Linne. 

The little window, dim and dark. 
Was hung with ivy, brere and yew ; 
No shimmering sun here ever shone. 
No halesome breeze here ever blew. 

No chair, ne table he mote spy. 

No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, 

Nought save a rope with renning 

noose, 
That dangling huug up o'er liis head. 

And over it in broad letters 

These words were written so plain 

to see : 
"Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent 

thine all. 
And brought thyself to penurie ? 

" All this my boding mind misgave, 
I therefore left this trusty friend : 
Let it now shield thy foul disgrace. 
And all thy shame and sorrows end." 

Sorely shent wi' this rebuke, 
Sorely shent was the lieire of Linne : 
His heart I wis, was near to brast 
With guilt and sorrow, shame and 
sin. 

Never a word spake the heir of 

Linne, 
Never a word he spake but three : 
" This is a trusty friend indeed. 
And is right welcome unto me." 

Then round his neck the cord he 

drew, 
And sprang aloft with his bodie, 
Wlien lo ! the ceiling burst in twain, 
And to the ground came tumbling he. 

Astonyed lay the heir of Linne, 
He knew if he were live or dead : 
At length he looked, and sawe a bille, 
And in it a key of gold so red. 

He took the bill, and lookt it on, 
Straight good comfort found he 

there : 
It told him of a hole in the wall. 
In which there stood three chests in? 

fere. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



309 



Two were full of the beaten golde, 
The third was full of white money; 
And ovei" them in broad letters 
These words were written so plain 
to see. 

" Once more, my sonne, I set thee 

clere ; 
Amend thy life and follies past; 
For but thou amend thee of thy life, 
That rope must be thy end at last." 

" And let it be" said the heire of 

Linne, 
" And let it be, but if I amend : 
For here I will make mine avow. 
This reade shall guide me to the 

end." 

Away then went with a merry 

cheare. 
Away then went the heire of Linne ; 
I wis, he neither ceased ne blanne, 
Till John o' the Scales house he did 

winne. 

And when he came to John o' the 

Scales, 
Up at the speere then looked he : 
There sate three lords upon a rowe, 
Were drinking of the wine so free. 

And John himself sate at the bord- 

head. 
Because now lord of Linne was he ; 
"I pray thee" he said, "good John 

o' the Scales, 
One forty pence for to lend me." 

"Away, away, thou thriftless loone; 

AAvay, away, this may not be : 

For Christ's curse on my head " he 

said, 
"K ever I trust thee one pennie." 

Then bespake the heir of Linne, 
To John o' the Scales' wife then 

spake he : 
"Madame, some almes on me be- 

stowe, 
I pray for sweet saint Charitie." 

" Away, away, thou thriftless loone, 
I sweare thou gettest no almes of 

me; 
For if we should hang any losel here. 
The first we wold begin with thee." 



Then bespake a good fellowe. 
Which sat at John o' the Scales his 

bord ; 
Said, " Turn again, thou heir of 

Linne ; 
Some time *^hou wast a well good lord, 

" Some time a good fellow thou hast 

been, 
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 
Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence, 
And other forty if need be. 

' ' And ever I pray thee, John o' the 

Scales, 
To let him sit in thy companie : 
For well I wot thou hadst his land. 
And a good bargain it was to thee." 

Up then spake him John o' the Scales, 
All wood he answered him againe: 
"Now Christ's curse on my head" 

he said, 
" But I did lose by that bargaine. 

And here I proffer thee, heir of 
Linne, 

Before these lords so faire and free. 

Thou shalt have it backe again bet- 
ter cheape 

By a hundred markes than I had it 
of thee." 

"I draw you to record, lords," he said, 
With that he cast him a gods-pennie : 
" Now by my fay " said the heire of 

Linne, 
" And here, good John, is thy 

money." 

And he pulled forth three bagges of 

gold. 
And laid them down ui^on the bord ; 
All woe begone was John o' the 

Scales, 
So shent he could say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold. 
He told it forth with mickle dinne. 
"The gold is thine, the land is mine. 
And now Inie againe the lord of 
Linne." 

Says, "Have thou here, thou good 

fellowe, 
Forty pence tliou didst lend me : 
Now I am again the lord of Linne, 
And forty pounds I will give thee. 



310 



PAIINASSUS. 



" He make thee keeper of my forrest, 
Both of the wild deere and the tame ; 
For but I reward thy bounteous heart, 
I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame." 

"Now welladay!" sayth Joan o' 

the Scales ; 
" Now welladay, and woe is my life ! 
Yesterday I was lady of Linne, 
Now Ime but John o' the Scales his 

wife." 

" Now fare thee well " said the heire 

of Linne, 
" Farewell now, John o' the Scales," 

said he : 
" Christ's curse light on me, if ever 

again 
I bring my lands in jeopardy." 

Percy's Reliques. 



SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF 
ALHAMA. 

The Moorish king rides up and 

down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama' s city fell ; 
In the fire the scroll he threw. 
And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule, and mounts his 

horse. 
And through the street directs his 

course ; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra walls he gained, 

On the moment he ordained 

That the trumpet straight should 

sound, 
With the silver clarion round. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
"AVlierefore call on us, O king? 
What may mean this gathering?" 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



•'Friends! ye have, alas! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow, 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtained Alhama's hold." 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see, 
" Good king, thou art justly served, 
Good king, this thou hast deserved. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

"By thee were slain, in evil hour. 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; 
And strangers Avere received by thee 
Of Cordova the chivalry. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" And for this, O king! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement. 
Thee and thine, thy crown and 

realm. 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama!" 

Fire flashed from out the old Moor's 

eyes. 
The monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answered, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings : " — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, and doomed him 
dead. 

Woe is me, Almaha I 

Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be. 
The king hath sent to have thee 

seized. 
For Alhama's loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone; 
That this for thee should be the 

law. 
And others tremble when they saw. 
Woe is me, Alhama! 

" Cavalier ! and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish monarch know. 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Woe is me, Alhamai 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



311 



" But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the Iving his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most," 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And as these things the old Moor 

said, 
They severed from the trunk his 

head ; 
And to Alhambra's wall with speed 
'Twas carried as the king decreed. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And from the windows o'er the 

walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ! 
The king weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 
Byron. 



THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 

Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort ! 

We knew that it was the last ; 
That the enemy's lines crept surely 
on, 

And the end was coming fast. 

To yield to that foe meant worse 
than death ; 
And the men and we all worked 
on; 
It was one day more of smoke and 
roar. 
And then it would all be done. 

There was one of us, a corporal's 
wife, 

A fair, young, gentle thing. 
Wasted with fever in the siege. 

And her mind was wandering. 

She lay on the ground, in her Scot- 
tish plaid, 
And I took her head on my knee ; 
•' When my father comes hame frae 
the pleugh," she said, 
"Oh! then please wauken me." 

She slept like a child on her father's 

floor, 

In the flecking of woodbine-shade. 

When the house-dog sprawls by the 

open door. 

And the mother's wheel is stayed. 



It was smoke and roar and powder- 
stench. 
And hopeless waiting for death ; 
And the soldier's wife, like a full- 
tired child, 
Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 

I sank to sleep; and I had my 
dream 
Of an English village-lane. 
And wall and garden; — but one 
wild scream 
Brought me back to the roar again. 

There Jessie Brown stood listening 
Till a sudden gladness broke 

All over her face ; and she caught my 
hand 
And drew me near as she spoke : — 

" The Hielanders ! O ! dinua ye hear 

The slogan far awa ? 
The McGregor's. O! Ikenitweel; 

It's the grandest o' them a' ! 

" God bless the bonny Hielanders ! 
We're saved! we're saved!" she 
cried ; 
And fell on her knees ; and thanks 
to God 
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide. 

Along the batteiy-line her cry 
Had fallen among the men, 

And they started back ; — they were 
there to die ; 
But was life so near them, then ? 

They listened for life; the rattling 
fire 
Far off, and the far-off roar. 
Were all ; and the colonel shook his 
head, 
And they turned to their guns 
once more. 

But Jessie said, " The slogan's done; 

But winna ye hear it noo. 
The Campbells are comM ? It's no a 
dream ; 

Our succors hae broken through ! " 

We heard the roar and the rattle 
afar, 
But the pipes we could not hear ; 
So the men plied their work of hope- 
less war. 
And knew that the end was neai". 



812 



PARNASSUS. 



It was not long ere it made its way, — 
A thriling, ceaseless sound : 

It was no noise from the strife afar, 
Or the sappers under ground. 

It vKis the pipes of the Highlanders ! 
And now they played Auld Lang 
Syne. 
It came to our men like the voice of 
God, 
And they shouted along the line. 

And they wept, and shook one an- 
other's hands. 
And the women sobbed in a crowd ; 
And eveiy one knelt down where he 
stood, 
And we all thanked God aloud. 

That happy time, when we welcomed 
them, 
Our men put Jessie first ; 
And the general gave her his hand, 
and cheers 
Like a storm from the soldiers 
burst. 

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan 
streamed. 
Marching round and round our 
line ; 
And our joyful cheers were broken 
with tears, 
As the pipes played Auld Lang 
Syne. 

E.OBEBT Lowell, 



SIR ANDREW BARTON. 

THE FIKST PART. 

When Flora with her fragrant flow- 
ers 
Bedeckt the earth so trim and 
gaye. 
And Neptune with his dainty show- 
ers 
Came to present the month of 
Maye, 
King Henry rode to take the air, 

Over the River Thames past he ; 
When eighty merchants of London 
came. 
And down they knelt upon their 
knee. 



" O ye are welcome, rich merchants, 
Good saylors, welcome unto me : " 
They swore by the rood, they were 
saylors good, 
But rich merchants they could not 
be. 
"To France nor Flanders dare we 
pass. 
Nor Bordeaux voyage dare we fare. 
And all for a robber that lyes on the 
seas, 
Wlio robs us of our merchant 
ware." 

King Henry frowned, and turned 
him round. 
And swore by the Lord that was 
mickle of might, 
" I thought he had not been in the 
world, 
Durst have wrought England such 
unright." 
The merchants sighed and said, 
"Alas!" 
And thus they did their answer 
frame ; 
" He is a proud Scot that robs on 
the seas. 
And Sir Andrew Barton is his 
name." 

The king looked over his left shoul- 
der, 
And an angry look then looked he ; 
" Have I never a lord in all my realm 
Will fetch yond traitor unto me ? " 
"Yea, that dare I," Lord Charles 
Howard says ; 
" Yea, that dare I with heart and 
hand ; 
If it i^lease your grace to give me 
leave, 
Myself will be the only man." 

"Thou art but young," the king 
replied, 
" Yond Scot hath numbered many 
a year:" 
" Trust me, my liege, I'll make him 
quail, 
Or before my prince I'll never 
aj^pear." 
" Then bowmen and gunners thou 
shalt have, 
And chuse them over my realm so 
free; 
Besides mai-iners and good sea-boys 
To guide the great ship on the sea." 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



313 



The first man that Lord Howard 
chose, 
Was the ablest gunner in all tlie 
realm, 
Though he was threescore years and 
ten; 
Good Peter Simon was his name. 
"Peter," says he, "I must to the 
sea 
To bring home a traitor live or 
dead ; 
Before all others I have chosen thee. 
Of a hundred gunners to be the 
head." 

*• If you, my lord, have chosen me 
Of a hundred gunners to be the 
head. 
Then hang me up on your main- 
mast tree. 
If I miss my mark one shilling 
bread." * 
My lord then chose a bowman rare, 
Whose active hands had gained 
fame ; 
In Yorkshire was this gentleman 
born, 
And William Horseley was his 
name. 

"Horseley," said he, "I must with 
speed 
Go seek a traitor on the sea, 
^nd now of a hundred bowmen 
brave 
To be the head I have chosen 
thee." 
"If you,'.' quoth he, "have chosen 
me 
Of a hundred bowmen to be the 
head, 
On your mainmast I'll hanged be, 
If I miss twelvescore one penny 
bread." 

With pikes, and guns, and bowmen 
bold, 
This noble Howard is gone to the 
sea; 
With a valiant heart and a pleasant 
cheer. 
Out at Thames mouth sailed he. 
A.nd days he scant had sailed three, 
Upon the journey he took in hand, 
But there he met with a noble ship. 
And stoutly made it etay and 
stand. 

* Bioad. 



" Thou must tell me," Lord Howard 
said, 
" Now who thou art, and what's 
thy name ; 
And show me where thy dwelling is, 
And whither bound, and whence 
thou came." 
"My name is Henry Hunt," quoth 
he. 
With a heavy heart and a careful 
mind ; 
" I and my ship do both belong 
To the Newcastle that stands upon 
Tyne." 

" Hast thou not heard, now, Henry 
Hunt, 
As thou hast sailed by day and by 
night, 
Of a Scottish robber on the seas ; 
Men call him Sir Andrew Barton, 
knight?" 
Then ever he sighed, and said, 
"Alas!" 
With a grieved mind and well- 
away, 
" But over- well I know that wight ; 
I was his prisoner yesterday. 

" As I was sailing upon the sea, 

A Bordeaux voyage for to fare, 
To his hachborde he clasped me. 

And robbed me of all my merchant 
ware. 
And mickle debts, God wot, I owe. 

And every man will have his own, 
And I am now to London bound, 

Of our gracious king to beg a boon." 

" Thou Shalt not need," Lord How- 
ard says ; 
" Let me but once that robber see. 
For every penny tane thee fro 
It shall be doubled shillings 
three." 
"Now God forfeud," the merchant 
said, 
" That you should seek so far 
amiss ! 
God keep you out of that traitor's 
hands ! 
Full little ye wot what a man he is. 

" He is brass within, and steel with- 
out. 

With beams on his topcastle strong," 
And eighteen pieces of ordinance 

He carries on each side along. 



314 



PARNASSUS, 



"And he hath a pinnace dearly 
dight, 
St. Andrew's cross, that is his 
guide ; 
His pinnace beareth ninescore men, 
And fifteen cannons on each side. 

" Were ye twenty ships, and he but 
one, 
I swear by kirk, and bower, and 
hall. 
He would overcome them every one, 
If once his beams they do down- 
fall." 
" This is cold comfort," said my 
lord, 
"To welcome a stranger thus to 
the sea : 
Yet I'll bring him and his ship to 
the shore. 
Or to Scotland he shall carry me." 

" Then a noble gunner you must 
have, 

And he must aim well with his ee. 
And sink his pinnace into the sea. 

Or else he never overcome will be. 
And if you chance his ship to board. 

This counsell I must give withal, 
Let no man to his topcastle go 

To strive to let his beams down- 
fall. 

"And seven pieces of ordinance, 

I pray your honor lend to me. 
On each side of my ship along. 

And I will lead you on the sea. 
A glass I'll get, that may be seen, 

Whether you sail by day or night. 
And to-morrow, I swear, by nine of 
the clock, 

You shall meet with Sir Andrew 
Barton, knight." 

THE SECOND PART. 

The merchant sette my lord a glass, 

So well apparent in his sight. 
And on the morrow, by nine of the 
clock. 
He showed him Sir Andrew Bar- 
ton, knight. 
His hacheborde it was hached with 
gold. 
So dearly dight it dazzled the ee ; 
" Now, by my faith," Lord Howard 
said, 
" This is a gallant sight to see. 



" Take in your ancients, standards 
eke. 
To close that no man may them 
see; 
And put me forth a white willow 
wand, 
As merchants use to sail the sea." 
But they stirred neither top nor 
mast; 
Stoutly they passed Sir Andrew by ; 
"What English churls are yonder," 
he said, 
" That can so little curtesie? 

" Now by the rood, three years and 
more 
I have been admiral over the sea, 
And never an English or Portugal, 
Without my leave can pass this 
way." 
Then called he forth his stout pin- 
nace ; 
"Fetch back yon peddlers now to 
me: 
I swear by the mass, yon English 
churls 
Shall all hang at my mainmast 
tree." 

With that the pinnace it shot off ; 
Full well Lord Howard might it 
ken; 
For it stroke down my lord's fore- 
mast. 
And killed fourteen of his men. 
" Come hither, Simon," says my lord, 
" Look that thy word be true, 
thou said : 
For at the mainmast shalt thou hang, 
If thou miss thy mark one shilling 
bread." 

Simon was old, but his heart was 
bold: 

His ordinance he laid right low : 
He put in chain full nine yards long. 

With other great shot less and 
moe, 
And he let go his great gun's shott; 

So well he settled it with his ee. 
The first sight that Sir Andrew saw, 

He saw his pinnace sunk in the sea. 

And when he saw his pinnace sunk, 
Lord, how his heart with rage did 
swell ! 
" Now, cut my ropes, it is time to be 
gone ; 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



315 



I'll fetch yon peddlers back my- 
sell." 
When ray lord saw Sir Andrew loose, 
Within his heart he was full fain; 
"Now spread your ancients, strike 
lip drums, 
Sound all your trumpets out 
amain." 

"Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew 
says, 

" Weale, howsoever this gear will 
sway: 
It is my lord admiral of England, 

Is come to seek me on the sea." 
Simon had a son who shot right well, 

That did Sir Andrew mickle scare; 
In at his deck he gave a shot. 

Killed threescore of his men of war. 

Then Henry Hunt, with vigor hot. 

Came bravely on the other side ; 
Soon he drove down his foremast tree. 

And killed fourscore men beside. 
" Now, out alas !" Sir Andrew cried, 

"What may a man now think or 
say? 
Yonder merchant thief that pierceth 
me. 

He was my prisoner yesterday. 

" Come hither to me, thou Gordon 
good. 
That aye was ready at my call ; 
I will give thee three hundred 
pounds 
If thou wilt let my beams down- 
fall." 
Lord Howard he then called in haste, 
" Horsely, see thou be true in 
stead ; 
For thou shalt at tlie mainmast hang, 
If thou miss twelvescore one pen- 
ny bread." 

Then Gordon swarved the mainmast 
tree, 
He swarved it with might and 
main ; 
But Horsely with a bearing arrow 
Strolce the Gordon through the 
brain ; 
And he fell unto the baches again. 
And sore his deadly wound did 
bleed : 
Then word went through Sir An- 
drew's men. 
How that the Gordon he was dead. 



" Come hither to me, James Ham- 
bilton, 
Thou art my only sister's son; 
If thou wilt let my beams downfall, 
Six hundred nobles thou hast won." 
With that he swarved the mainmast 
tree, 
He swarved it with nimble art ; 
But Horsely with a broad arrow 
Pierced the Hambilton through 
the heart ; 

And down he fell ui^on the deck. 
That with his blood did stream 
amain : 
Then every Scot cried, " Walaway ! 

Alas, a comely youth is slain I " 
All wo begone was Sir Andrew then. 
With grief and rage his heart did 
swell ; 
" Go fetch me forth my armor of 
proof. 
For I will to the topcastle mysell. 

" Go fetch me forth my armor of 
proof. 
That gilded is with gold so clear ; 
God be with my brother, John of 
Barton ! 
Against the Portugalls he it ware. 
And when he had on this armor of 
proof. 
He was a gallant sight to see ; 
Ah ! ne'er didst thou meet with liv- 
ing wight. 
My dear brother, could cope with 
thee." 

" Come hither, Horsely," says my 
lord, 
" And look your shaft that it go 
right ; 
Shoot a good shot in time of need. 
And for it thou shalt be made a 
knight." 
"I'll shoot my best," quoth Horsely 
then, 
" Your honor shall see, with might 
and main ; 
But if I were hanged at your main- 
mast, 
I have now left but arrows twain." 

Sir Andrew he did swarve the tree. 
With light goodwill he swarved it 
then. 

Upon his breast did Horsely hitt. 
But the arrow bouudeil back again. 



316 



PARNASSUS. 



Then Horsely spied a private place, 
With a perfect eye, in a secret part ; 

Under the spole of his right arm 
He smote Sir Andrew to the heart. 

"Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew 
says, 
" A httle I'm hurt, but yet not 
slain; 
I'll but lie down and bleed awhile. 

And then I'll rise and fight again. 

Fight on, my men," Sir Andrew 

says, 

" And never flinch before the foe ; 

And stand fast by St. Andrew's 

cross, 

Until you hear my whistle blow." 

They never heard his whistle blow. 
Which made their hearts wax sore 
adread : 
Then Horsely said, "Aboard, my 
lord. 
For well I wot Sir Andrew's 
dead." 
They boarded then his noble ship, 
They boarded it with might and 
main; 
Eighteen score Scots alive they 
found. 
The rest were either maimed or 
slain. 

Lord Howard took a sword in hand. 
And off he smote Sir Andrew's 
head ; 
" I must have left England many a 
day. 
If thou wert alive as thou art 
dead." 
He caused his body to be cast 

Over the hatchbord into the sea. 
And about his middle three hundred 
crowns : 
" Wlierever thou land, this will 
bury thee." 

Thus from the wars Lord Howard 
came. 
And back he sailed o'er the main ; 
With mickle joy and triumphing 
Into Thames' mouth he came 
again. 
Lord Howard then a letter wrote. 

And sealed it with seal and ring : 
"Such a noble prize have I brought 
to your grace 
As never did subject to a Idng. 



" Sir Andrew's ship I bring with me, 

A braver ship was never none ; 
Now hath your grace two ships of 
war. 
Before in England was but one." 
King Henry's grace with royal 
cheer 
Welcomed the noble Howard 
home; 
"And where," said he, "is this ro- 
ver stout. 
That I myself may give the 
doom?" 

"The rover, he is safe, my liege, 
Full many a fathom in tl^e sea; 
If he were alive as he is dead, 
I must have left England many a 
day. 
And your grace may thank four men 
in the ship, 
For the victory we have won ; 
These are William Horsely, Henry 
Hunt, 
And Peter Simon, and his son." 

" To Henry Hunt," the king then 
said, 
"In lieu of what was from thee 
taen, 
A noble a day now thou shalt have, 
Sir Andrew's jewels and his 
chain. 
And Horsely thou shalt be a knight, 
And lands and livings shalt have 
store ; 
Howard shall be Earl Surry hight. 
As Howards erst have been before. 

" Now Peter Simon, thou art old, 

I will maintain thee and thy son ; 
And the men shall have five hun- 
dred marks 
For the good service they have 
done," 
Then in came the queen with ladies 
fair, 
To see Sir Andrew Barton, knight; 
They weened that he were brought 
on shore, 
And thought to have seen a gal- 
lant sight. 

But when they see his deadly face. 
And eyes so hollow in his head, 

"I would give," quoth the king, "a 
thousand marks, 
This man were alive as he is dead. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



317 



Yet for the manful part he played, 
"Which fought so well with heart 
and hand, 
Hismen shall have twelvepence aday, 
Till they come to my brother 
king's high land." 



SIR PATRICK SPENS. 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 
Drinking the blude-red wine : 

" b where will I get a skeely skipper 
To sail this new ship of mine?" 

O up and spake an eldern knight. 
Sat at the king's right knee: 

" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
That ever sailed the sea." 

Our king has written a braid letter, 
And sealed it with his hand, 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
"Was walking on the strand. 

" To Noroway, to Noroway, 
To Noroway o'er the faem ; 

The king's daughter of Noroway, 
'Tis thou maun bring her hame ! " 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 
Sae loud, loud laughed he ; 

The neist word that Sir Patrick 
read, 
The tear blindit his e'e. 

" O wha is this has done this deed, 
And tauld the king o' me. 

To send us out at this time of the 
year, 
To sail upon the sea ? 

" Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be 
it sleet. 

Our ship must sail the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis we must fetch her hame." 

They hoysed their sails on Monen- 
day morn 

Wi' a' the speed they may ; 
They hae landed in Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week 

In Noroway, but twae. 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say : 



" Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's 
gowd 

And a' our queene's fee." 
" Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! 

Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! 

" For I hae brought as much white 
monie 
As gane my men and me, 
And I hae brought a half-fou o' 
gude red gowd 
Out owre the sea wi' me. 

" Make ready, make ready, my merry 
men a' ! 

Our gude ship sails the morn." 
" Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm ! 

" I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 
"Wi' the auld moon in her arm; 

And if we gang to sea, master, 
I fear we'll come to harm." 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 
A league, but barely three, 

"When the lift grew dark, and the 
wind blew loud. 
And gurly grew the sea. 

The ankers brak, and the topmasts 
lap, 
It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And the waves came o'er the broken 
ship 
Till a' her sides were torn. 

" O where will I get a gude sailor 
To take my helm in hand. 

Till I get up to the tall topmast 
To see if I can spy land ? " 

" O here am I, a sailor gude. 
To take the helm in hand. 

Till you go up to the tall topmast, — 
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step, but barely ane, 
"When a boult flew out of our goodly 
ship, 

And the salt sea it came in. 

" Grae fetch a web o' the silken 
claith, 

Another o' the twine. 
And wap them into our ship's side 

And let ua the sea come in." 



I 



318 



PARNASSUS. 



They fetched a web o' the silken 
claith, 
Another o' the twine, 
And they wapped them roim' that 
gude ship's side, 
But still the sea came in. 

O laith, laith were our gude Scots 
lords 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon ! 
But lang or a' the play was played, 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 
That floated on the faem ; 

And mony was the gude lord's son 
That never mair came hame. 

The ladyes wrange their fingers 
white, 

The maidens tore their hair ; 
A' for the sake of their true loves, — 

For them they'll see na mair. 

O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, 
Wi' their fans into their hand. 

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
Come sailing to the strand ! 

And lang lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 

A' waiting for their ain dear loves, 
For them they'll see na mair. 

O forty miles off Aberdeen 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep, 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 

Anonymous. 



THE EAEL O' QUARTERDECK. 

A NEW^ OLD BALLAD. 

The wind it blew, and the ship it 
flew; 
And it was " Hey for hame ! 
And ho for hame!" But the skip- 
per cried, 
"Haud her oot o'er the saut sea 
faem." 

Then up and spoke the king himsel' : 
" Haud on for Dumferline ! " 

Quo he skipper, "Ye're king upo' 
the land — 
I'm king upo' the brine." 



And he took the helm intil his hand, 
And he steered the ship sae free ; 

Wi' the wind astarn, he crowded sail, 
And stood right out to sea. 

Quo the king, "There's treason in 
this, I vow; 
This is something underhand ! 
'Bout ship!" Quo the skipper, 
" Yer grace forgets 
Ye are king but o' the land ! " 

And still he held to the open sea ; 

And the east wind sank behind ; 
And the west had a bitter word to 
say, 

Wi' a white-sea roarin' wind. 

And he turned her head into the 
north. 
Said the king: "Gar fling him 
o'er." 
Quo the fearless skipper: "It's a' 
ye're worth ! 
Ye' 11 ne'er see Scotland more." 

The king crept down the cabin-stair, 
To drink the gude French wine. 

And up she came, his daughter fair, 
And luikit ower the brine. 

She turned her face to the drivin' 
hail, 
To the hail but and the weet ; 
Her snood it brak, and, as lang 's 
hersel'. 
Her hair drave out i' the sleet. 

She turned her face frae the drivin' 
win' — 
"What's that ahead? " quo she. 
The skipper he threw himsel' frae 
the win', 
And he drove the helm a-lee. 

" Put to yer hand, my lady fair! 

Put to yer hand," quoth he; 
" Gin she dinna face the win' the 
mair. 

It's the waur for you and me." 

For the skipper kenned that strength 
is strength. 
Whether woman's or man's at last 
To the tiller the lady she laid her 
ban', 
And the ship laid her cheek to the 
blast. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



319 



For that slender body was full o' 

soul, 

And the will is mair than shape ; 

As the skipper saw when they cleared 

the berg, 

And he heard her quarter scrape. 

Quo the skipper: "Ye are a lady 
fair. 
And a princess grand to see ; 
But ye are a woman, and a man wad 
sail 
To hell in yer company." 

Bhe liftit a pale and a queenly face ; 
Her een flashed, and syne they 
swam. 
" And what for no to heaven ? " she 
says, 
And she turned awa' frae him. 

But she took na her han' frae the 
good ship's helm. 
Until the day did daw; 
And the skipper he spak, but what 
he said 
It was said atween them twa. 

And then the good ship, she lay to, 
With the land far on the lee ; 

And up came the king upo' the 
deck, 
Wi' wan face and bluidshot ee. 

The skipper he louted to the king : 
" Gae wa', gae wa'," said the king. 

Said the king, like a prince, "I was 
a' wraiig. 
Put on this ruby ring." 

And the wind blew lowne, and the 
stars cam oot, 

And the ship turned to the shore; 
A-ud, afore the sun was up again, 

They saw Scotland ance more. 

That day the ship hung at the pier- 
heid. 
And the king he stept on the land. 
"Skipper, kneel down," the king he 
said, 
" Hoo daur ye afore me stand ? " 

The skipper he louted on his knee. 
The king his blade he drew : 

Baid the ^ing, " How daured ye con- 
tre me ? 
I'm aboard my ain ship noo. 



" I canna mak ye a king," said he, 
" For the Lord alone can do that ; 

And besides ye took it intil yer ain 
han', 
And crooned yersel' sae pat 1 

" But wi' what ye will I redeem my 
ring ; 
For ance I am at your beck. 
And first, as ye loutit Skipper o' 
Boon, 
Rise up Yerl o' Quarterdeck." 

The skipper he rose and looked at 
the king 
In his een for all his croon ; 
Said the skipper, "Here is yer grace's 
ring, 
And yer daughter is my boon." 

The reid blude sprang into the king's 
face, — 

A wrathful man to see : 
" The rascal loon abuses our grace ; 

Gae hang him upon yon tree." 

But the skipper he sprang aboard his 
ship. 
And he drew his biting blade ; 
And he struck the chain that held 
her fast. 
But the iron was ower weel made. 

And the king he blew a whistle loud ; 

And tramp, tramp, down the 
pier. 
Cam' twenty riders on twenty steeds, 

Clankin' wi' spur and spear. 

" He saved your life ! " cried the lady 
fair; 
" His life ye daurna spill ! " 
"Will ye come atween me and my 
hate? " 
Quo the lady, " And that I will ! " 

And on cam the knights wi' spur 
and spear, 
For they heard the iron ring. 
" Gin ye care na for yer father's 
grace. 
Mind ye that I am the king." 

" I kneel to my father for his grace, 

Right lowly on my knee ; 
But I stand and look the king in the 
face. 

For the skipper is king o' me." 



320 



PARNASSUS. 



She turned antl she sprang upo' the 
deck, 
And the cable splashed in the sea. 
The good ship spread her wings sae 
wliite, 
And away witli the sliipper goes 
she. 

Now was not this a Icing's daughter, 

And a brave lady beside ? 
And a woman with whom a man 
might sail 
Into the heaven wi' pride ? 

George MacDonald. 



WKECK OF "THE GRACE OF 
SUNDERLAND." 

"He's a rare man, 
Our parson ; half a head above us all." 

" That's a great gift, and notable," 
said I. 

"Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger 

man 
He went out in the life-boat very oft, 
Before ' The Grace of Sunderland ' 

was wrecked. 
He's never been his own man since 

that hour ; 
For there were thirty men aboard of 

her, 
Anigh as close as you are now to me, 
And ne'er a one was saved. 

They're lying now. 
With two small children, in a row: 

the church 
And yard are full of seamen's graves, 

and few 
Have any names. 

She bumped upon the reef ; 
Our parson, my young son, and 

several more 
Were lashed together with a two-inch 

rope. 
And crept along to her ; their mates 

ashore 
Ready to haul them in. The gale 

was high, 
The sea was all a boiling seething 

froth, 
And God Almighty's guns were 

going off, 
A.nd the land trembled. 



" When she took the ground. 
She went to pieces like a lock of hay 
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it 

came to that, 
The captain reeled on deck with 

two small things. 
One in each arm — his little lad and 

lass. 
Their hair was long and blew before 

his face, 
Or else we thought he had been 

saved; he fell, 
But held them fast. The crew, poor 

luckless souls ! 
The breakers licked them off; and 

some were crushed. 
Some swallowed in the yeast, some 

flung up dead. 
The dear breath beaten out of them : 

not one 
Jumped from the wreck upon the 

reef to catch 
The hands that strained to reach, 

but tumbled back 
With eyes wide open. But the cap- 
tain lay 
And clung — the only man alive. 

They prayed — 
' For God's sake, captain, throw the 

children here ! ' 
' Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; 

and then she struck : 
And he threw one, a jiretty two 

years' child, 
But the gale dashed him on the 

slippery verge. 
And down he went. They say they 

heard him cry. 

" Then he rose up and took the other 

one. 
And all our men reached out their 

hungry arms, 
And cried out, ' Throw her, throw 

her I ' and he did. 
He threw her right against the par- 
son's breast, 
And all at once a sea broke over them. 
And they that saw it from the shore 

have said 
It struck the wreck, and piecemeal 

scattered it. 
Just as a woman might the lump of 

salt 
That 'twixt her hands into the 

kneading-pan 
SJje breaks and crumbles on her 

psing bread. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



321 



" We hauled our men in : two of 

tliein were dead — 
The sea had beaten them, their 

heads hung down ; 
Our parson's arms were empty, for 

the wave 
Had torn away the pretty, pretty 

lamb ; 
We often see him stand beside her 

grave : 
But 'twas no fault of his, no fault 

of his." 

Jean Ingelow. 



THE DEOWNED LOVERS. 

Willie stands in his stable door, 
And clapping at liis steed ; 
And looking o'er his white fingers, 
His nose began to bleed. 

" Gie corn to my horse, mother; 
And meat to my young man : 
And I'll awa' to Meggie's bower, 
I'll win ere she lie down." 

" O bide this night wi' me, Willie, 

bide this night wi' me ; 

The best an' cock o' a' the reest, 
At your supper shall be." 

" A' your cocks, and a' your reests, 

1 value not a prin ; 

For I'll awa' to Meggie's bower, 
I'll win ere she lie down." 

" Stay this night wi' me, Willie, 

stay this night wi' me ; 

The best an' sheep in a' the flock 
At your supper shall be." 

" A' your sheep, and a' your flocks, 

1 value not a prin ; 

For I'll awa' to Meggie's bower, 
I'll win ere she lie down." 

" O an' ye gang to Meggie's bower, 
Sae sair against my will, 
The deepest pot in Clyde's water, 
My malison ye's feel." 

" The guid steed that I ride upon 
I Cost me thrice thretty pound ; 
And I'll put trust in his swift feet, 
To hae me safe to land." 

21 



As he rade ower yon high, high hill, 
And down yon dowie den, 
The noise that was in Clyde's water 
Wou'd fear'd five hunder men. 

*' Ye're roaring loud, Clyde water, 
Your waves seem ower Strang ; 
Make me your wreck as I come back, 
But spare me as I gang." 

Then he is on to Meggie's bower. 

And tirl^d at the pin ; 

" O sleep ye, wake ye, Meggie," he 

said, 
" Ye' 11 open, lat me come in." 

" O wha is this at my bower door. 
That calls me by my name? " 
" It is your first love, sweet Willie, 
This night newly come hame." 

"I hae few lovers thereout, there- 
out. 
As few hae I therein ; 
The best an' love that ever I had. 
Was here just late yestreen." 

" The warstan stable in a' your 

stables. 
For my puir steed to stand ; 
The warstan bower in a' your 

bowers, 
For me to lie therein : 
My boots are fu' o' Clyde's water, 
I'm shivering at the chin." 

" My barns are fu' o' corn, Willie, 
My stables are fu' o' hay ; 
My bowers are fu' o' gentlemen ; — 
They'll nae remove till day." 

" O fare-ye-well, my fause Meggie, 
O farewell, and adieu; 
I've gotten my mither's malison, 
This night coming to you." 

As he rode ower yon high, high 

hill. 
And down yon dowie den ; 
The rushing that was in Clyde's 

water 
Took Willie's cane fra him. 

He lean'd him ower his saddle bow, 

To catch his cane again ; 

The rushing that was in Clyde's 

water 
Took Willie's hat frae him. 



322 



PAHNASSUS. 



He lean'd him ower his saddle bow, 

To catcli his hat thro' force ; 

The rushing tliat was in Clyde's 

water 
Took Willie frae his horse. 

His brither stood upo' the bank, 
Says, "Fye, man, will ye drown? 
Ye'll turn ye to your high horse 

head, 
And learn how to sowm." 

" How can I turn to my horse head, 
And learn how to sowm ? 
I've gotten my mither's malison, 
It's here that I maun drown ! " 

The very hour this young man sank 
Into the pot sae deep, 
Up it waken'd his love, Meggie, 
Out o' her drowsy sleep. 

" Come here, come here, my mither 

dear, 
And read this dreary dream ; 
I dream' d my love was at our gates, 
And nane wad let him in." 

" Lye still, lye still now, my Meg- 
gie, 
Lye still and tak your rest ; 
Sin' your true love was at your gates, 
It's but twa quarters past." 

Nimbly, nimbly raise she up, 
And nimbly pat she on ; 
And the higher that the lady cried. 
The louder blew the win'. 

The first an' step that she stepp'd in, 
She stepped to the queet ; 
" Ohon, alas ! " said that lady, 
" This water's wondrous deep." 

The next an' step that she wade in. 
She wadit to the knee ; 
Says she, " I cou'd wade farther in. 
If I my love cou'd see." 

The next an' step that she wade in, 
She wadit to the chin ; 
The deepest pot in Clyde's water, 
She got sweet Willie in. 

" You've had a cruel mither, Willie, 
And I have had anither ; 
But we shall sleep in Clyde's water, 
Like sister an' like brither." 



WINSTANLEY. 

Winstanley's deed, you kindly 
folk, 
With it I fill my lay, 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the 
world. 
Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship "Snowdrop" tarried 
long. 
Up at the vane looked he ; 
" Belike," he said, for the wind had 
dropped, 
" She lieth becalmed at sea." 

The lovely ladies flocked within. 
And still would each one say, 

" Good mercer, be the ships come 
up?" 
But still he answered, "Nay." 

Then stepped two mariners down the 
street. 

With looks of grief and fear: 
"Now, if Winstanley be your name, 

We bring you evil cheer ! 

"For the good ship 'Snowdrop' 
struck, — she struck 
On the rock, — the Eddystone, 
And down she went with threescore 
men, 
We two being left alone. 

"Down in the deep, with freight and 
crew. 

Past any help she lies, 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thy merchandise." 

"For cloth o' gold and comely 
frieze," 

Winstanley said, and sighed, 
" For velvet coif, or costly coat. 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

" O thou brave skipper, blithe and 
kind, 

O mariners, bold and true, 
Sony at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 

" Many long days Winstanley's breast 
Shall feel a weight within. 

For a waft of wind he shall be 
'feared, 
And trading count but sin. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



323 



" To him no more it shall be joy 
To pace the cheerful town, 

And see the lovely ladies gay 
Step on in velvet gown." 

The "Snowdrop" sank at Lammas 
tide, 
All under the yeasty spray; 
On Christmas Eve the brig "Con- 
tent" 
Was also cast away. 

He little thought o' New Year's night. 

So jolly as he sat then, 
While drank the toast and praised 
the roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 

While serving lads ran to and fro. 

Pouring the ruby wine, 
And jellies trembled on the board, 

And towering pasties fme, — 

While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock o'erhead. 

And holly-boughs from rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide. 
How the wave washed in his sailor 
lads, 

And laid them side by side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 
"Now, stranger, who be ye?" 

He looked to right, he looked to left. 
And " Rest you merry," quoth he ; 

•For you did not see the brig go down, 
Or ever a storm had blown ; 

Foi' you did not see the white wave 
rear 
At the rock, — the Eddystone, 

** She drave at the rock with stern- 
sails set ; 
Crash went the masts in twain; 
She staggered back with her mortal 
blow. 
Then leaped at it again. 

" There rose a great cry, bitter and 
strong ; 
The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed with sea- 
men's heads. 
And the wreck was strewed about. 



" I saw lier mainsail lash the sea 
As I clung to the rock alone ; 

Then she heeled over, and down she 
went, 
And sank like any stone. 

" She was a fair ship, but all's one ! 

For naught could bide the shock." 
" I will take horse," Winstanley said, 

" And see this deadly rock. 

" For never again shall bark o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea. 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for 
this 

Be found a remedy." 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 
All in the sleet and the snow ; 

And he looked around on sliore and 
sound, 
As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away. 
And shot up its stately head. 

Reared, and fell over, and reared 
again : 
" Tis the roek ! the rock ! " he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his way : 
" Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

" I am a mercer of London town. 
And owner of vessels three, — 

" But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track the main." 
" You are one of many," the old 

Mayor said, 
" That on the rock complain. 

"An ill rock, mercer! your words 

ring right, 
Well with my tlioughts they chime, 
For my two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time." 

" Lend me a lighter, good Master 
Mayor, 

And a score of shipwrights free, 
For I think to raise a lantern tower 

On this rock o' destiny." 

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed 
also: 
" Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rash; 
Sooner, young man, thou' It root it 
out 
From the sea that doth it lash. 



324 



PARNASSUS. 



" Who sails too near its jagged teeth, 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

" And the heavier seas few look on 
nigh, 
But straight they lay him dead ; 
A seventy-gun-ship, sir! — they'll 
shoot 
Higher than her masthead. 

" Oh, beacons sighted in the dark. 
They are right welcome things. 

And pitchpots flaming on the shore 
Show fair as anrel wings. 

"Hast gold in hand? then light the 
land. 

It 'longs to thee and me; 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 

Yet said he, '* Nay, — I must away, 
On the rock to set my feet ; 

My debts are paid, my will I made, 
Or ever I did thee greet. 

" If I must die, then let me die 
By the rock, and not elswhere ; 

If I may live, O let me live 
To mount my lighthouse stair." 

The old Mayor looked him in the face. 
And answered, " Have thy way; 

Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
It was braced with an iron stay : 

" Have thy will, mercer! choose thy 

men. 
Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 
God with thee be, or I shall see 
Thy face and theirs no more." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, 
And foam iiew up the lea, 

Morning and even the drifted snow 
Fell into the dark gray sea. 

Winstanley chose him men and gear ; 

He said, " My time I waste," 
For the seas ran seething up the shore. 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty days he waited and more. 

Pacing the strand alone. 
Or ever he sat his manly foot 

On the rock, — the Eddystoue, 



Then he and the sea began their strife, 
And worked with power and might; 

Whatever the man I'eared up by day 
The sea broke down by night. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam. 
He sailed to shore at flow ; 

And at his side, by that same tide. 
Came bar and beam also. 

" Give in, give in," the old Mayor 
cried, 
" Or thou wilt rue the day." 
"Yonder he goes," the townsfolk 
sighed, 
But the rock will have its way. 

" For all his looks that are so stout. 

And his speeches brave and fair. 
He may wait on the wind, wait on 
the wave. 
But he'll build no lighthouse 
there." 

In fine weather and foul weather 
The rock his arts did flout, 
Through the long days and the short 
days. 
Till all that year ran out. 

With fine weather and foul weather 

Another year came in ; 
" To take his wage," the workmen 
said, 

" We almost count a sin." 

Now March was gone, came April in, 
And a sea-fog settled down. 

And forth sailed he on a glassy sea. 
He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wont to do : 
They showed in the fog like ghosts 
full faint, — 

A ghostly craft and crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway. 
For a long eight days and more ; 

" God help our men," quoth the 
women then ; 
" For they bide long from shore." 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and 
dread : 

" Wliere may our mariners be ? " 
But the brooding fog lay soft as dowa 

Over the quiet sea. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



325 



A Scottish schooner made the port, 
The thirteenth day at e'eu; 

" As I am a man," the captain cried, 
" A strange sight I have seen : 

" And a strange sotind heard, my 
masters all. 
At sea, in the fog and the rain, 
Like shipwrights' hammers tapping 
low, 
Then loud, then low again. 

"And a stately house one instant 
showed. 
Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 
What manner of creatures may be 
those 
That built upon the sea? " 

Then sighed the folk, " The Lord be 
praised!" 
And they flocked to the shore 
amain : 
All over the Hoe that livelong night. 
Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased ; and the red sun reared his 
head, 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
And, lo ! in the oQing faint and far 
Winstanley's house at sea! 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 
The stately tower uprose ; 

In foul weather, with hunger and 
cold. 
They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went, 

To fire the wick afar ; 
And Pljonouth in the silent night 

Looked out, and saw her star. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore : 
Said he, " My work is done; 

I hold it strong to last as long 
As aught beneath the sun, 

" But if it fail, as fall it may, 
Borne down with ruin and rout. 

Another than I shall rear it high. 
And brace the girders stout. 

" A better than I shall rear it high, 
For now the way is plain ; 

Ajid though I were dead," Winstanley 
said, 
" The light would shine again. 



" Yet were I fain still to remain. 
Watch in my tower to keep, 

And tend my light in the stormiest 
night 
That ever did move the deep ; 

" And if it stood, why then 'twere 
good, 
Amid their tremulous stirs. 
To count each stroke when the mad 
waves broke. 
For cheers of mariners. 

" But if it fell, then this were well, 
That I should with it fall ; 

Since, for my part, I have built my 
heart 
In the courses of its wall. 

"Ay! I were fain, long to remain, 
Watch in my tower to keep, 

And tend my light in the stormiest 
night 
That ever did move the deep." 

With that Winstanley went his way, 
And left the rock renowned, 

And summer and winter his pilot star 
Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 

But it fell out, fell out at last, 
That he would put to sea. 

To scan once more his lighthouse 
tower 
On the rock o' destiny. 

And the winds broke, and the storm 
broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling 
graves, 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below, 

And black the sky o'erhead. 

And when the dawn, the dull, gray 
dawn, — 
Broke on the trembling town. 
And men looked south to the harbor 
mouth. 
The lighthotise tower was down. 

Dowii in the deep where he doth 
sleep. 
Who made it shine afar, 



326 



PARNASSUS. 



A-nd then in the night that drowned 
its light, 
Set, with his pilot star. 

Many fair tombs in the glorious 
glooms 
At Westminster they show ; 
The brave and the great lie there in 
state : 
Winstanley lieth low. 

Jean Ingelow. 



FIDELITY. 

A BARKING sound the shepherd 

hears, 
A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
He halts, and searches with his eyes 
Among the scattered rocks : 
And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
And instantly a dog is seen 
Glancing from that covert green. 

The dog is not of mountain breed ; 
Its motions, too, are wild and shy; 
With something, as the shepherd 

thinks, 
Unusual in its cry : 
Nor is there any one in sight 
All round, in hollow or on height ; 
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear : 
What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps till June December'" 

snow ; 
A lofty precipice in front, 
A silent tarn below ! 
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
Kemote from public road or dwelling, 
Pathway, or cultivated land. 
From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 
The crags repeat the ravens' croak 
In symphony austere ; 
Thither the rainbow comes — the 

cloud — 
And mists that spread the flying 

shroud ; 
And sunbeams: and the sounding 

blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past, 
But that enormous barrier binds it 

fast. 



Not free from boding thoughts, a 

while 
The shepherd stood ; then makes ha 

way 
Towards the dog, o'er rocks and 

stones. 
As quickly as he may; 
Nor far had gone before he found 
A human skeleton on the ground ; 
The appalled discoverer with a sigh 
Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
The man had fallen, that place of 

fear! 
At length upon the shepherd's mind 
It breaks, and all is clear : 
He instantly recalled the name. 
And who he was, andwhence he came ; 
Remembered, too, the very day 
On which the traveller passed this 

way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I tell ! 

A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 

The dog, which still was hovering 

nigh, 
Repeating the same timid cry, 
This dog had been through three 

months' space 
A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain that since the 
day 

On which the traveller thus had died 

The dog had watched about the spot, 

Or by his master's side: 

How nourished here through such 
long time 

He knows, who gave that love sub- 
lime. 

And gave that strength of feeling, 
great 

Above all human estimate. 

WOEDSWOKTH. 



HELVELLYN. 

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the 
mighty Helvellyn, 
Lakes and mountains beneath me 
gleamed misty and wide ; 
All was still, save by fits, when the 
eagle was yelling. 
And starting around me the 
echoes replied. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



327 



On the right, Striden-edge round the 

Red-tarn was bending, 
And Catchedicam its left verge was 

defending, 
One huge nameless rock in the 

front was ascending, 
V/hen I marked the sad spot 

where the wanderer had died. 

Dark green was that spot 'mid the 
brown mountain heather, 
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay 
stretched in decay, 

Like the corpse of an outcast aban- 
doned to weather, 
Till the mountain-winds wasted 
the tenantless clay. 

Nor yet quite deserted, though lone- 
ly extended, 

For, faithful in death, his mute 
favorite attended, 

The much-loved remains of her 
master defended. 
And chased the hill-fox and the 
raven away. 

How long didst thou think that his 
silence was slumber ? 
Wlien the wind waved his gar- 
ment, how oft didst thou 
start ? 

How many long days and long weeks 
didst thou number. 
Ere he faded before thee, the 
friend of thy heart ? 

And, oh, was it meet, that, no re- 
quiem read o'er him, — 

No mother to weep, and no friend to 
deplore him, 

A.nd thou, little guardian, alone 
stretched before him, — 
Unhonored the Pilgrim from life 
should depart? 

When a Prince to the fate of the 
Peasant has yielded. 
The tapestry waves dark round 
the dim-lighted hall ; 

With scutcheons of silver the coffin 
is shielded, 
And pages stand mute by the can- 
opied pall : 

Through the courts, at deep mid- 
night, the torches are gleam- 
ing; 

In the proudly-arched chapel the 
banners are beaming ; 



Far adown the long aisle sacred 
music is streaming. 
Lamenting a Chief of tlie People 
should fall. 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of 
nature. 
To lay down thy head like the 
meek mountain Iamb, 
When, wildered, he drops from 
some cliff huge in stature. 
And draws his last sob by the side 
of his dam. 
And more stately thy couch by this 

desert lake lying, 
Thy obsequies sung by the gray 

plover flying, 
With one faithful friend but to wit- 
ness thy dying. 
In the arms of Helvellyn and 
Catchedicam. 

Scott. 

GEORGE NIDIVER. 

Men have done brave deeds, 
And bards have sung them well : 

I of good George Nidiver 
Now the tale will tell. 

In Californian mountains 

A hunter bold was he : 
Keen his eye and sure his aim 

As any you should see. 

A little Indian boy 

Followed him everywhere, 
Eager to share the hunter's joy, 

The hunter's meal to share. 

And when the bird or deer 
Fell by the hunter's skill, 

The boy was always near 
To help with right good-will. 

One day as through the cleft 
Between two mountains steep, 

Shut in both right and left, 
Their questing way they keep, 

They see two grizzly bears. 
With hunger fierce and fell, 

Rush at them unawares 
Right down the narrow dell. 

The boy turned round with screams, 
And ran with terror wild : 

One of the pair of savage beasts 
Pursued the shrieking child. 



328 



PARNASSUS. 



The hunter raised his gun, — 
He knew one charge was all, — 

And through the boy's pursuing foe 
He sent his only ball. 

The other on George Nidiver 
Came on with dreadful pace : 

The hunter stood unarmed, 
And met him face to face. 

I say unarmed he stood : 
Against those frightful paws 

The rifle butt, or club of wood. 
Could stand no more than straws. 

George Nidiver stood still. 
And looked him in the face : 

The wild beast stopped amazed. 
Then came with slackening pace. 

Still firm the hunter stood. 
Although his heart beat high : 

Again the creature stopped. 
And gazed with wondering eye. 

The hunter met his gaze, 
Nor yet an inch gave way ; 

The bear turned slowly round, 
And slowly moved away. 

Wliat thoughts were in his mind 
It would be hard to spell : 

What thoughts were in George 
Nidiver 
I rather guess than tell. 

But sure that rifle's aim. 
Swift choice of generous part, 

Showed in its passing gleam 
The depths of. a brave heart. 

E. H. 

SVEND VONVED. 
[From the old Danish.] 

SvEND VoNVED binds his sword to 

his side ; 
He fain will battle with knights of 

pride. 
" Wlien may I look for thee once 

more here ? 
Wlien roast the heifer, and spice the 

beer?" 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

"When stones shall take, of them- 
selves, a flight. 

And ravens' feathers are woxen 
white, 



Then expect Svend Vonved home : 
In all my days, I will never come." 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved 

His mother took that in evil part : 
"I hear, young gallant, that mad 

thou art ; 
Wherever thou goest, on land or sea, 
Disgrace and shame shall attend on 

thee." 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

He kissed her thrice with his lips of 

fire: 
"Appease, O mother, appease thine 

ire! 
Ne'er wish me any mischance to 

know. 
For thou canst not tell how far I may 

go." 
Lookout, lookout, Svend Vonved. 

"Then I will bless thee, this very 

day; 
Thou never shalt perish ni any fray ; 
Success shall be in thy coui'ser tall. 
Success in thyself which is best of 
all. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

"Success in thy hand, success in thy 

foot. 
In struggle with man, in battle with 

brute ; 
The Holy God and Saint Drotten dear 
Shall guide and watch thee through 

thy career." 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

Svend Vonved took up the word 

again — 
"I'll range the mountain, and rove 

the plain. 
Peasant and noble I'll wound and 

slay; 
All, all, for my father's vsrong shall 

pay." 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

His helm was blinking against the 

sun. 
His spurs were clinking his heels 

upon. 
His horse was springing, with bridle 

ringing. 
While sat the warrior wildly smgnigi 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



329 



He rode and lilted, he rode and 

sang, 
Then met he by chance Sir Thule 

Vang ; 
Sir Thule Vang, with his twelve 

sons bold, 
All cased in iron, the bright and cold. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

Svend Vonved took his sword from 

his side, 
He fain would battle with knights so 

tried ; 
The proud Sir Thule' he first ran 

through, 
And then, in succession, his sons he 

slew. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

Svend Vonved binds his sword to 

his side. 
It lists him farther to ride, to ride ; 
He rode along by the grene shaw, 
The Brute-carl there with surprise 

he saw. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

A wild swine sat on his shoulders 

broad. 
Upon his bosom a black bear snored ; 
And about his fingers with hairo'er- 

hung. 
The squirrel sported and weasel 

clung. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

'•Now, Brute-carl, yield thy booty 

to me. 
Or I will take it by force from thee. 
Say, wilt thou quickly thy beasts 

forego, 
Or venture with me to bandy a 

blow?" 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

" Much rather, much rather, I'll 

fight with thee, 
Than thou my booty should get from 

me: 
I never was bidden the like to do, 
Since good King Esmer in fight I 

slew." 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

" And didst thou slay King Esmer 

fine? 
Why, then thou slewest dear father 

mine; 



And soon, full soon, shalt thou pay 

for him, 
With the flesh hackt off from thy 

every limb!" 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

They drew a circle upon the sward ; 
They both were dour, as the rocks 

are hard ; 
Forsooth, I tell you, their hearts 

were steeled, — 
The one to the other no jot would 

yield. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

They fought for a day, — they fought 

for two, — 
And so on the third they were fain 

to do; 
But ere the fourth day reached the 

night. 
The Brute-carl fell, and was slain 

outright. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

Svend Vonved binds his sword to 

his side. 
Farther and farther he lists to ride ; 
He rode at the foot of a hill so steep, 
There saw he a herd as he drove the 

sheep. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

" Now listen. Herd, with the fleecy 

care ; 
Listen, and give me answers fair. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

"What is rounder than a wheel ? 
Where do they eat the holiest meal ? 
Where does the sun go down to his 

seat? 
And where do they lay the dead 

man's feet? 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

"What fills the valleys one and all ? 

Wliat is clothed best in the mon- 
arch's hall? 

Wliat cries more loud than cranes 
can cry ? 

And what in whiteness the swan out- 
vie? 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

" Who on his back his beard doth 

wear? 
Wlio 'neath his chin his nose doth 

bear? 



330 



PARNASSUS. 



What's more black than the blackest 

sloe? 
And Avhat is swifter than a roe? 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

" Where is the bridge that is most 
broad ? 

What is, by man, the most ab- 
horred ? 

"Wliere leads, where leads, the high- 
est road up ? 

And say where the hottest of drink 
they sup?" 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

" The sun is rounder than a wheel. 
They eat at the altar the holiest 

meal. 
The sun in the West goes down to 

his seat : 
And they lay to the East the dead 

man's feet. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

" Snow fills the valleys, one and all. 

Man is clothed best in the monarch's 
hall. 

Thunder cries louder than cranes 
can cry. 

Angels in whiteness the swan out- 
vie. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

"His beard on his back the lapwing 

wears. 
His nose 'neath his chin the elfin 

bears. 
More black is sin than the blackest 

sloe: 
And thought is swifter than any roe. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

" Ice is of bridges the bridge most 

broad. 
The toad is, of all things, the most 

abhorred. 
To paradise leads the highest road 

up: 
And in hell the hottest of drink they 

sup." 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

Svend Vonved binds his sword to his 

side. 
It lists him farther to ride, to ride : 
He found upon the desolate wold 
A burly knight, of aspect bold. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 



"Now tell me. Eider, noble ani 

good. 
Where does the fish stand up in the 

flood ? 
Where do they mingle the best, best 

wine ? 
And where with his knights does 

Vidrick dine? 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved." 

"The fish in the East stands up in 

the flood. 
They drink in the North the wine 

so good. 
In Halland's hall does Vidrick dine, 
With his swains around, and hil 

warriors fine." 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

From his breast Svend Vonved a 

gold ring drew, 
At the foot of the knight the gold 
ring he threw ; 
"Go! say thou wert the very 
last man 
Who gold from the hand of Svend 
Vonved wan," 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

Then in he went to his lonely bow- 
er. 

There drank he the wine, the wine 
of power; 

His much-loved harp he played 
upon 

Till the strings were broken every 
one. 
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved. 

Translated from the old Danish by 

Geokge Bokrow^, 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 

The Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn, 
To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! 

His fiery courser snuffs the morn. 
And thronging serfs their lord 
pursue. 

The eager pack, from couples freed. 
Dash through the bush, the brier, 
the brake ; 
While answering hound, and horn, 
and steed, 
The mountain echoes startling 
wake. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



331 



Tli-i beams of God's own hallowed 
day 
Had painted yonder spire Avitlx 
gold, 
And, calling sinful man to pray, 
Loud, long, and deep the bell had 
tolled : 

But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; 

Halloo, halloo! and, hark again! 
When, spurring from opposing sides, 

Two Stranger Horsemen join the 
train. 

Who wa? each Stranger, left and right, 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 

The right-hand steed was silver 
white. 
The left, the swarthy hue of hell. 

The right-hand Horseman, young 
and fair, 
His smile was like the morn of 
May; 
The left, from eye of tawny glare. 
Shot midnight lightning's lurid 
ray. 

He waved his huntsman's cap on 
high. 
Cried, " Welcome, welcome, noble 
lord ! 
What sport can earth, or sea, or sky. 
To match the princely chase, af- 
ford?" 

"Cease thy loud bugle's clanging 
knell," 
Cried the fair youth, with silver 
voice ; 
" And for devotion's choral swell. 
Exchange the rude unhallowed 
noise. 

"To-day the ill-omened chase for- 
bear. 
Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; 
To-day the Warning Spirit hear, 
To-morrow thou mayst mourn In 
vain." — 

"Away, and sweep the glades 
along!" 
The Sable Hunter hoarse replies ; 
" To muttering monks leave matin- 
song. 
And bells, and books, and mys- 
teries." 



The Wildgrave spurred his ardent 
steed. 
And, launching forward with a 
bound, 
"Who, for thy drowsy priestlike 
rede, 
Would leave the jovial horn and 
hound ? 

"Hence, if our manly sport offend! 
With i^ious fools go chant and 
pray ! — 
Well hast thou spoke, my dark- 
browed friend ; 
Halloo, halloo ! and, hark away ! " 

The Wildgrave spurred his courser 
light, 
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and 
hill; 
And on the left, and on the right, 
Each Stranger Horseman followed 
still. 

Up springs, from yonder tangled 
thorn, 
A stag more white than mountain 
snow; 
And louder rung the Wildgrave' s 
horn, 
"Hark forward, forward! holla, 
ho!" 

A heedless wretch has crossed the 
way; 
He gasps, the thundering hoofs 
below ; — 
But, live who can, or die who may. 
Still, "Forward, forward!" on 
they go. 

See, where yon simple fences meet, 
A field with autumn's blessings 
crowned ; 
See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, 
A husbandman with toil em- 
browned : 

" O mercy, mercy, noble lord! 
Spare the poor's pittance," was 
his cry, 
"Earned by the sweat these brows 
have poured 
In scorching hour of fierce July." 

Earnest the right-hand Stranger 
pleads. 
The left still cheering to the prey ; 



332 



PARNASSUS. 



The impetuous Earl no warning 
lieeds, 
But furious holds the onward way. 

" Away, thou hound ! so basely born, 
Or dread the scourge's echoing 
blow!" — 
Then loudly rung his bugle-horn, 
"Hark forward, forward! holla, 
ho!" 

So said, so done : — A single bound 
Clears the poor laborer's humble 
pale; 
Wild follows man, and horse, and 
hound, 
Like dark December's stormy gale. 

And man and horse, and hound and 
horn. 
Destructive sweep the field along ; 
Wliile, joying o'er the wasted corn, 
Fell Famine marks the maddening 
throng. 

Again uproused, the timorous prey 
Scours moss and moor, and holt 
and hill ; 
Hard run, he feels his strength de- 
cay, 
And trusts for life his simple skill. 

Too dangerous solitude appeared ; 

He seeks the shelter of the crowd : 
Amid the flock's domestic herd 

His harmless head he hopes to 
shroud. 

O'er moss and moor, and holt and 
hill. 
His track the steady bloodhounds 
trace ; 
O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, 
The furious Earl pursues the 
chase. 

Full lowly did the herdsman fall ; — 
" O spare, thou noble Baron, spare 

These herds, a widow's little all; 
These flocks, an orphan's fleecy 
care!" — 

Earnest the right-hand Stranger 
pleads, 
The left still cheering to the prey ; 
The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds. 
But furious keeps the onward 
way. 



"Unmannered dog! To stop my 
sport. 
Vain were thy cant and beggar 
whine, 
Though human spirits, of thy sort. 
Were tenants of these carrion 
kine!" — 

Again he winds his bugle-horn, 
" Hark forward, forward, holla, 
ho!" 
And through the herd, in ruthless 
scorn. 
He cheers his furious hounds to go. 

In heaps the throttled victims fall ; 
Down sinks their mangled herds- 
man near ; 
The murderous cries the stag appal, — 
Again he stai'ts, new-nerved by 
fear. 

With blood besmeared, and white 
with foam, 
Wliile big the tears of anguish pour, 
He seeks, amid the forest's gloom. 
The humble hermit's hallowed 
bower. 

But man and horse, and horn and 
hound. 
Fast rattling on his traces go ; 
The sacred chapel rung around 
With, ' ' Hark away ! and, holla, 
ho!" 

All mild, amid the rout profane, 
The holy hermit poured his 
prayer : 
" Foi'bear with blood God's house to 
stain ; 
Revere his altar, and forbear ! 

"The meanest brute has rights to 
plead, 
Which, wronged by cruelty, or 
pride, 
Draw vengeance on the ruthless 
head : — 
Be warned at length, and turn 
aside." — 

Still the Fair Horseman anxious 
pleads ; 
The Black, wild whooping, points 
the prey : 
Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds. 
But frantic keeps the forward way 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



333 



" Holy or not, or right or wrong, 
Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn ; 

Not sainted martyrs' sacred song. 
Not God himself, shall make me 
turn!" 

He spurs his horse, he winds his 
horn, 
" Hark forward, forward ! holla, 
ho!" 
But off, on whirlwind's pinions 
borne. 
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. 

And horse and man, and horn and 
hound. 
And clamor of the chase, were gone ; 
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle 
sound, 
A deadly silence reigned alone. 

Wild gazed the affrighted Earl 
around ; 
He strove in vain to wake his horn. 
In vain to call : for not a sound 
Could from his anxious lips be 
borne. 

He listens for his trusty hounds; 

No distant baying reached his ears ; 
His courser, rooted to the ground. 

The quickening spur unmindful 
bears. 

Still dark and darker frown the 
shades, 

Dark as the darkness of the grave ; 
And not a sound the still invades. 

Save what a distant torrent gave. 

High o'er the sinner's humbled head 
At length the solemn silence 
broke ; 

And from a cloud of swarthy red, 
The awful voice of thunder spoke. 

"Oppressor of creation fair! 

Apostate Spirit's hardened tooll 
Scorner of God! Scourge of the 
poor ! 

The measure of thy cup is full. 

"Be chased forever through the 

wood; 

Forever roam the affrighted wild ; 

And let thy fate instruct the proud, 

God's meanest creature is his 

•^hild." 



" 'Twas hushed: one flash, of som- 
bre glare. 
With yellow tinged the forests 
brown ; 
Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling 
hair. 
And horror chilled each nerve and 
bone. 

Cold poured the sweat in freezing 
rill; 
A rising wind began to sing; 
And louder, louder, louder still. 
Brought storm and tempest on its 
wing. 

Earth heard the call ; — her entrails 
rend; 
From yawning rifts, with many a 
yell, 
Mixed with sulphureous flames, as- 
cend 
The misbegotten dogs of hell. 

Wliat ghastly Huntsman next arose, 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell : 

His eye like midnight lightning 
glows. 
His steed the swarthy hue of hell. 

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and 
thorn. 
With many a shriek of helpless 
woe; 
Behind him hound, and horse, and 
horn, 
And, " Hark away, and holla, ho !" 

With wild Despair's reverted eye, 
Close, close behind, he marks the 
throng, 

Witli bloody fangs, and eager cry ; 
In frantic fear he scours along. — 

Still, still shall last the dreadful 
chase, 
Till time itself shall have an end : 
By day, tliey scour earth's caverned 
space, 
At midnight's witching hour, as- 
cend. 

This is the horn, and hound, and 
horse, 
That oft the lated peasant hears ; 
Appalled he signs the frequent cross. 
When the wild din invades his 
ears. 



334 



PAENASSUS. 



The wakeful priest oft drops a tear 
For human pride, for human woe, 

When, at his midnight mass, he hears 

The infernal cry of, " Holla, ho ! " 

Scott : trans, from Bukgek. 



ALICE BRANTD. 

Merry it is in the good greenwood, 
When the mavis and mei*le are 
singing, 
When the deer sweeps by, and the 

hounds are In cry, 
. And the hunter's horn is ringing. 

"O Alice Brand, my native land 

Is lost for love of you ; 
And we must hold by wood and 
wold. 

As outlaws wont to do. 

"O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so 
bright. 
And 'twas all for thine eyes so 
blue, 
That on the night of our luckless 
flight. 
Thy brother bold I slew. 

"Now must I teach to hew the 
beech 

The hand that held the glaive. 
For leaves to spread our lowly bed, 

And stakes to fence our cave. 

"And for vest of pall, thy fingers 
small, 
That wont on harp to stray, 
A cloak must shear from the slaugh- 
tered deer. 
To keep the cold away." — 

" O Richard ! If my brother died, 
'Twas but a fatal chance; 

For darkling was the battle tried, 
And fortune sped the lance. 

" If pall and vair no more I wear. 
Nor thou the crimson sheen, 

As warm, we'll say, is the russet 
gray, 
As gay the forest green. 

" And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 

And lost thy native land. 
Still Alice has her own Richard, 

And he his Alice Brand." 



'Tls merry, 'tis merry, m good green 
wood, 
So blithe Lady Alice Is singing ; 
On the beech's pride, and oak's 
brown side. 
Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 

Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 

Wlio woned within the hill, — 
Like wind in the porch of a ruined 
church, 

His voice was ghostly shrill. 
"Wliy sounds yon stroke on beech 
and oak. 

Our moonlight circle's sci'een? 
Or who comes here to chase the deer, 

Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? 
Or who may dare on wold to wear 

The fairies' fatal green ? 

" Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, 
For thou wert christened man ; 

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, 
For muttered word or ban." 

'Tls merry, 'tis merry, In good green- 
wood. 
Though the birds have stilled their 
singing ; 
The evening blaze doth Alice raise, 
And Richard is fagots bringing. 

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, 

Before Lord Richard stands. 
And, as he crossed and blessed him- 
self, 
"I fear not sign," quoth the grisly 
elf, 
" That is made with bloody 
hands." 

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 
That woman void of fear, — 

" And if there's blood upon his hand, 
'Tls but the blood of deer." — 

" Now loud thou llest, thou bold of 
mood! 

It cleaves unto his hand. 
The stain of thine own kindly blood, 

The blood of Ethert Brand." 

Then forward stepped she, Alice 
Brand, 
And made the holy sign, — 
"And if there's blood on Richard 
hand, 
A spotless hand is mine. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



335 



•* And I conjure thee, Demon elf, 
By Him whom Demons fear, 

To show us whence thou art thyself, 
And what thine errand here? " — 

" It was between the night and day, 
Wlien the Fairy King has power. 
That I sunk down in a sinful fray, 
And, 'twixt life and death, was 
snatched away 
To the joyless Elfin bower. 

" But wist I of a woman bold, 
Wlio thrice my brow durst sign, 

I might regain my mortal mould, 
As fair a form as thine." 

She crossed him once — she crossed 
him twice — 

That lady was so brave ; 
The fouler grew his goblin hue, 

The darker grew the cave. 

She crossed him thrice, that lady 
bold; 

He rose beneath her hand 
The fairest knight on Scottish mould, 

Her brother, Ethert Brand ! 

Merry it is in good greenwood, 
When the mavis and merle are 
singing, 
But merrier were they in Dunferm- 
line gray. 
When all the bells were ringing. 
Scott. 



► 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL 
SWAMP. 

" They made her a grave too cold 
and damjj 
For a soul so warm and true ; 
And she's gone to the Lake of the 

Dismal Swamp, 
Where all night long, by a firefly 
lamp. 
She paddles her white canoe. 

And her firefly lamp I soon shall see. 
And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
jLong and loving our life shalf be. 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress- 
tree. 
When the footstep of death is 
near!" 



Away to the Dismal Swamp he 
speeds, — 
His path was rugged and sore. 
Through tangled juniper, beds of 

reeds. 
Through many a fen where the ser- 
pent feeds, 
And man never trod before ! 



And when on the earth he sunk to 
sleep. 
If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay where the deadly vine doth 

weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly 
steep 
The flesh with blistering dew ! 



And near him the she-wolf stirred 
the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in 
his ear. 
Till he starting cried, from his 

dream awake, 
" O when shall I see the dusky 
Lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear ? " 

He saw the Lake, and a meteor 
bright 
Quick over its surface played, — 
"Welcome," he said "my dear one's 

light!" 
And the dim shore echoed for many 
a night 
The name of the death-cold maid ! 



Till he hollowed a boat of the birch- 
en bark, 
Which carried him off from shore; 
Far he followed the meteor spark. 
The wind was high and the clouds 
were dark. 
And the boat returned no more. 



But oft, from the Indian hunter's 
camp. 
This lover and maid so true 
Are seen, at the hour of midnight 

damp, 
To cross the Lake by a firefly 
lamp, 
And paddle their white canoe ! 
Moore, 



336 



PARNASSUS. 



CHILD DYRING. 

Child Dyking has ridden him up 
under 6e, 

(And O gin I were young!) 
There wedded he liini sae fair a may. 

( I' the greenwood it lists me to ride. ) 

Thegither they lived for seven lang 
year, 
(AndO, &c.) 
And they seven bairnes hae gotten 
in fere. 
(I' the greenwood, &c.) 

Sae Death's come there intill that 

stead, 
And that winsome lily flower is dead. 

That swain he has ridden him up 

under oe. 
And syne he has married anither 

may. 

He's married a may, and he's fessen 

her hame ; 
But she was a grim and a laidly 

dame. 

When into the castell court drave she, 
The seven bairnes stood wi' the 
tear in their ee. 

The bairnes they stood wi' dule and 

doubt ; — 
She up wi' her foot, and she kicked 

them out. 

Nor ale nor mead to the bairnes she 

gave: 
" But hunger and hate frae me ye's 

have." 

She took frae them the bowster blae. 
And said, " Ye sail ligg i' the bare 
strae ! " 

She took frae them the groff wax- 
light : 

Says, "Now ye sail ligg i' the mirk 
a' night!" 

'Twas lang i' the night, and the 

bairnies grat : 
Their mither she under the mools 

heard that ; 



That heard the wife under the eard 

that lay : 
"Forsooth maun I to my bairnies 

gae!" 

That wife can stand up at our Lord's 

knee, 
And " May I gang and my bairnies 

see?" 

She prigged sae sair, and she prigged 

sae lang. 
That he at the last gae her leave to 

gang. 

" And thou sail come back when the 

cock does craw ; 
For thou nae langer sail bide 

awa." 

Wi' her banes sae stark a bowt she 

gae; 
She's riven baith wa' and marble 

gray. 

When near to the dwalling she can 

gang, 
The dogs they wow'd till the lift it 

rang. 

When she came till the castell 

yett. 
Her eldest dochter stood thereat. 

"Why stand ye here, dear dochter 

mine? 
How are sma brithers and sisters 

thine?" — 

" For sooth ye' re a woman baith fair 

and fine ; 
But ye are nae dear mither of 

mine." — 

" Och ! how should I be fine or 

fair? 
My cheek is pale, and the ground's 

my lair." — 

"My mither was white, wi' cheek 

sae red, 
But thou art wan, and liker ane 

dead?" 

"Och, how should I be white an<j 

red; 
Sae lang as I've been cauld and 

dead?" 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS, 



337 



WTien she came till the chalmer 

in, 
Down the bairns' cheeks the tears 

did riu. 

She buskit the tane, and she brushed 

it there ; 
She kem'd and plaited the tither's 

hair. 

Till her eldest dochter syne said 

she, 
" Ye bid Child Dyring come here to 

me." 

When he cam till the chalmer in, 
Wi' angry mood she said to him ; 

" I left you routh o' ale and bread ; 
5(Iy bairnes quail for hunger and 
need. 

"I left ahind me braw bowsters 

blae; 
Jly bairnes are ligging i' the bare 

strae. 

" I left ye sae mony a grofE wax- 
light; 

My bairnes ligg i' the mirk a' 
night. 

" Gin aft I come back to visit thee, 
Wae, dowy, and weary thy luck 
shall be." 

Up spak little Klrstin in bed that 

lay: 
"To thy baimies I'll do the best I 

may." 

Aye when they heard the dog nirr 

and bell, 
Sae gae they the baimies bread and 

ale. 

Aye when the dog did mow, in 

haste, 
They cross'd and sain'd themselves 

frae the ghaist. 

Aye whan the little dog yowl'd, with 

fear 
They shook at the thought that the 

dead was near. 

Scott. 



CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 

Being a true relation of the inhuman 
inuriler of two children of a deceased gen- 
tleman in Norfolk, England, whom he left 
to the care of his brother ; but the wicked 
uncle, in order to get the cliildren's estate, 
contrived to have them destroyed by two 
ruthans whom he hired for that purpose ; 
with an account of tlie lieavy judgments 
of God, which befell him, for this inhuman 
deed, and of the untimely end of the two 
bloody ruttians. To which is added a 
word of advice to executors, &c. 

Now ponder well, you parents dear, 
These words which I do write ; 

A doleful story you shall hear, 
In time, brought forth to light. 

A gentleman of good account 

In Norfolk lived of late, 
Whose fame and credit did sur- 
mount 

Most men of his estate. 

So sick he was, and like to die, 
No help he then could have ; 

His wife by him as sick did lie, 
And both possess one grave. 

No love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kind ; 
In love they lived, in love they 
died. 

And left two babes behind ; — 

The one a fine and pretty boy. 
Not passing three years old ; 

The other a girl more young than he, 
And made of beauteous mould. 

The father left his little son. 

As plainly doth appear, 
Wlien he to perfect age should come, 

Three hundreds pounds a year. 

And to his little daughter Jane 
Two hundred pounds in gold. 

For to be paid on marriage day, 
Wliich might not be controlled. 

But, if these children chanced to die 
Ere they to age did come, 

The uncle should possess the wealth ; 
For so the will did run. 

" Now, brother," said the dying man, 
" Look to my children dear. 

Be good unto my boy and girl : 
No friend else have I here. 



338 



PARNASSUS. 



*' To God and you I do commend 
My children night and day : 

A Httle while be sure we have 
Within this world to stay. 

*' You must be father, mother both, 

"And uncle, all in one; 
God knows what will become of them 

When I am dead and gone." 

With that bespoke the mother dear, 
" O brother kind ! " quoth she, 

**Tou are the man must bring my 
babes 
To wealth or misery. 

" If you do keep them carefully, 
Then God will you reward : 

If otherwise you seem to deal, 
God will your deeds regard." 

With lips as cold as any stone. 
She kissed her children small ; 

"God bless you both, my children 
dear!" 
With that the tears did fall. 

These speeches then the brother 
spoke 

To the sick couple there ; 
" The keeping of your children dear, 

Sweet sister, never fear. 

'' God never prosper me nor mine. 
Nor aught else that I have, 

If I do wrong your children dear. 
When you're laid in the grave." 

The parents being dead and gone, 
Tlie children home he takes, 

And brings them home untohis house, 
And much of them he makes. 

He had not kept these pretty babes 
A twelvemonth and a day, 

But for their wealth he did devise 
To make them both away. 

He bargained with two ruflBans rude. 
Who were of furious mood, 

That they should take these children 
young, 
And slay them in a wood ; 

And told his wife and all he had. 
He did those children send, 

To be brought up in fair London, 
With one that was his friend. 



Away then went these pretty babes, 

Rejoicing at the tide. 
And smiling w;ith a merry mind. 

They on cock-horse should ride. 

They prate and prattle pleasantly 

As they rode on the way, 
To them th at should their butchers be, 

And work their lives' decay. 

So that the pretty speech they had 
Made murderers' hearts relent ; 

And they that took the deed to do, 
Full sore they did repent. 

Yet one of them, more hard of hearty 
Did vow to do his charge. 

Because the wretch that hired him 
Had paid him very large. 

The other would not agree thereto, 
So here they fell in strife : 

With one another they did fight 
About the children's life. 

And he that was of mildest mood 

Did slay the other there. 
Within an unfrequented wood. 

Where babes do quake for fear. 

He took the children by the hand, 
When tears stood in their eye. 

And bid them come, and go with 
him. 
And see they did not cry. 

And two long miles he led them thus, 
While they for bread complain ; 

"Stay here," quoth he: "I'll bring 
you bread 
When I do come again." 

These pretty babes, with hand in 
hand, 

Went wandering up and down ; 
But never more they saw the man 

Approaching from the town. 

Their pretty lips with blackberries 
Were all besmeared and dyed ; 

But, when they saw the darksome 
night, 
They sat them down and cried. 

Thus wandered these two little babes 
Till death did end their grief: 

In one another's arms they died, 
As babes ■vranting relief. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BAIjLADS. 



339 



ffo burial these pretty babes 

Of any man receives ; 
But robin red-breast painfully 

Did cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrath of God 

Upon the uncle fell ; 
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his 
house, 

His conscience felt a hell. 

His barns were fired, his goods con- 
sumed, 

His lands were barren made ; 
His cattle died within the field. 

And nothing with him staid. 

And in a voyage to Portugal, 

Two of his sons did die ; 
And to conclude, himself was 
brought 

Unto much misery. 

He pawned and mortgaged all his 
lands 

Ere seven years came about ; 
And now at length, this wicked act 

By this means did come out : 

The fellow that did take in hand 

These children for to kill 
Was for a robbery judged to die, 

As was God's blessed will. 

Who did confess the very truth 
That is herein expressed : 

The uncle died, where he, for debt, 
Did in the prison rest. 

A WORD OF ADVICE TO EXECUTOBS. 

All ye who be executors made. 

And overseers eke. 
Of children that be fatherless. 

And infants mild and meek, 

Take you example by this thing, 
And yield to each his right ; 

Lest God, by such like misery. 
Your wicked deeds requite. 

Anon. 

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP. 

Sweep ho ! Sweep ho '. 
He trudges on through sleet and snow. 

Tired and hungry both is he, 
Ajid he whistles vacantly. 



Sooty black his rags and skin, 
But the child is fair within. 

Ice and cold are better far 
Than his master's curses are. 

Mother of this little one, 
Could'st thou see thy little son! 

Sweep ho ! Sweep ho ! 
He trudges on through sleet and snow. 

At the great man's door he knocks, 
Which the servant maid unlocks. 

Now let in with laugh and jeer, 
In his eye there stands a tear. 

He is young, but soon will know 
How to bear both word and blow. 

Sweep ho ! Sweep ho ! 
In the chimney sleet and snow. 

Gladly should his task be done, 
Were't the last beneath the sun. 

Faithfully it now shall be. 

But, soon spent, down droppeth he. 

Gazes round as in a dream. 

Very strange, but true, things seem. 

Led by a fantastic power 
Which sets by the present hour, 

Creeps he to a little bed. 
Pillows there his aching head. 

And, poor thing ! he does not know 
There he lay long years ago ! 

E. S. H. 



THE BOY OF EGREMOND. 

" What is good for a bootless bene? '* 
With these dark words begins my 

tale; 
And their meaning is, " Whence can 

comfort spring. 
When prayer is of no avail ? " 

" What is good for a bootless bene?" 

The falconer to the lady said ; 

And she made answer, " Endless 

sorrow ! " 
For she knew that her son was dead. 



340 



PARNASSUS. 



She knew it by the falconer's words, 
And from the look of the falconer's 

eye; 
And from the love which was in her 

soul 
For her youthful Komilly. 

— Young Eomilly through Barden 

Woods 
Is ranging high and low ; 
And holds a greyhound in a leash, 
To let slip up on buck or doe. 

The pair have reached that fearful 

chasm, 
How tempting to bestride ! 
For lordly Wliarf is there pent in 
With rocks on either side. 

This striding-place is called " the 

Strid," 
A name which it took of yore : 
A thousand years hath it borne that 

name. 
And shall, a thousand more. 

And hither is young Eomilly come, 

And what may now forbid 

That he, perhaps for the hundredth 

time. 
Shall bound across " the Strid " ? 

He sprang in glee, — for what cared 

he 
That the river was strong, and the 

rocks were steep ! 

— But the greyhound in the leash 

hung back, 
And checked him in his leap. 

The boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
And strangled by a merciless force ; 
For never more was young Komilly 

seen 
Till he rose a lifeless corse. 

Now there is stillness in the vale. 
And long unspeaking sorrow : 
Wharf shall be, to pitying hearts, 
A name more sad than Yarrow. 

If for a lover the lady wept, 

A solace she might borrow 

From death, and from the passion 

of death ; 
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 



She weeps not for the wedding-day 
Wliich was to be to-morrow : 
Her hope was a farther-looking hope, 
And hers is a mother's sorrow. 

He was a tree that stood alone, 
And proudly did its branches wave: 
And the root of this delightful tree 
Was in her husband's grave ! 

Long, long in darkness did slie sit, 
And her first words were, " Let 

there be 
In Bolton, on the field of Wliarf, 
A stately Priory! " 

Tlie stately Priory was reared ; 
And Wharf, as he moved along, 
To matins joined a mournful voice. 
Nor failed at evensong. 

And the lady prayed in heaviness 
That looked not for relief ! 
But slowly did her succor come, 
And a patience to her grief. 

Oh ! there is never sorrow of lieart 
That shall lack a timely end, 
If but to God we turn and ask 
Of Him to be our friend i 

Wordsworth. 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE 
COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

The old mayor climbed the belfry 
tower. 
The ringers ran by two, by three ; 
"Pull, if ye never pulled before; 
Good ringers, pull your best," 
quoth he. 
"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston 

bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 
Play uppe ' The Brides of En- 
derby!' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde, — 
The Lord thai sent it. He knows 
all; 
But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let 
fall: 
And there was nought of strange, 
beside 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



341 



The flights of mews and peewits pied, 
By millions crouched on the old 
sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 
My thread brake off, I raised myne 
eyes; 
The level sun, like ruddy ore. 

Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
And dark against day's golden death 
She moved where Lindis wan- 

dereth, — 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth. 
From the meads where melick 

groweth 
Faintly came her milking song. — 

" Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 

" For the dews will soone be falling ; 

Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
Mellow, mellow ; 

Quit your cowslips, cowsUps yel- 
low; 

Come uppe WTiitefoot, come uppe 
Lightfoot, 

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 
Hollow, hollow; 

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 

From the clovers lift your head; 

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe 
Lightfoot, 

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 

Jetty, to the milking shed." 

If it be long, aye, long ago, 

Wlien I beginue to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 
Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and 
strong ; 
And all the aire it seemeth mee 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be scene. 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the 
greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 



The swannerds where their sedges 
are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth; 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kyndly message 

free, 
The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked nppe into the 
sky, 
And all along where Lindis flows 
To where the goodly vessels lie, 
And where the lordly steeple 
shows. 
They sayde, " And why should this 

thing be. 
What danger lowers by land or sea ? 
They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the 
scorpe, 
They have not spared to wake the 
towne ; 
But while the west bin red to see. 
And storms b*^ none, and pyrates 

flee. 
Why ring 'The Brides of Ender- 
by?'" 

I looked without, and lo! my sonne 
Came riding downe with might 
and main. 

He raised a shout as he drew on. 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

"The olde sea wall (he cried) is 
downe. 
The rising tide comes on apace. 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
"God save you, mother!" straight 

he saith ; 
" Where is my wife, EHzabeth?" 

"Good Sonne, where Lindis winds 
away 
With her two bairns I marked her 
long ; 
And ere yon bells beganne to play, 
Afar I heard her milking song." 



342 



PARNASSUS. 



He looked across the grassy sea, 
To right, to left, " Ho Enderby ! " 
They rang "The Brides of Ender- 
by!" 

With that he cried and beat his 
breast ; 
For lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises 

loud ; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white 

cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward 

pressed, 
Shook all her trembling bankes 

amaine ; 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 
Flung uppe her weltering walls 

again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin 

and rout, — 
Then beaten foam flew round 

about, — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 
The heart had hardly time to 
beat. 
Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at our feet : 
The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee. 
And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping 
by: 
I marked the lofty beacon light 
Stream from the church tower, 
red and high, — 
A lurid mark and dread to see ; 
And awsome bells they were to 

mee. 
That in the dark rang "Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless 

rowed ; 

And I, — my sonne was at my side, 

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed : 

And yet he moaned beneath his 

breath, 
" O come in life, or come in death ! 
O lost! my love, Elizabeth." 



And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst my daugh- 
ter deare ! 
The waters laid thee at his doore. 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace. 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the 

grass ; 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to 

sea; 
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 
To manye more than myne and 

me: 
But each will mourn his own, (she 

saith). 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew 

breath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis' shore, 
"Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
"Cusha, Cusha!" all along, 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick grow- 

eth, 
When the water winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Wliere the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver: 
Stand beside the sobbing river. 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, 
To the sandy lonesome shore; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
"Leave your meadow grasses mel- 
low, 
Mellow, mellow; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe 

Lightfoot ; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and fol- 
low; 
Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From youi clovers lift the head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

Jean Ingelow 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



343 



BRISTOWE TRAGEDY; OR, THE 
DEATH OF SIR CHARLES 
BAWDIN. 

I. 

The feathered songster chanticleer 
Had wound his bugle horn, 

And told tlie early villager 
The coming of the morn. 



King Edward sawe the ruddy streaks 

Of light eclipse the grey ; 
And heard the raven's croaking 
throat 

Proclaim the fated day. 



"Thou'rt right," quoth he, "for, 

by the God 
That sits enthroned on high ! 
Charles Bawdin, and his fellows 

twain, 
To-day shall surely die." 



Then with a jug of nappy ale 
His knights did on him wait. 

" Go tell the traitor, that to-day 
He leaves this mortal state." 



Sir Canterlone then bended low, 
With heart brimful of woe ; 

He journeyed to the castle-gate, 
And to Sir Charles did go. 



But when he came, his children 
twain, 

And eke his loving wife. 
With briny tears did wet the floor, 

For good Sir Charles's life. 



"O good Sir Charles!" said Canter- 
lone, 
" Bad tidings do I bring." 
"Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir 
Charles, 
" What says thy traitor king ? " 



"I grieve to tell, before yon sun 
Does from the welkin fly. 

He hath upon his honor sworn, 
That thou shalt surely die." 



"We all must die," quoth brave Sir 
Charles, 

" Of that I'm not affeared ; 
What boots to live a little space ? 

Thank Jesu, I'm prepared; 



"But tell thy king, for mine he's 
not, 

I'd sooner die to-day 
Than live his slave, as many are, 

Though I should live for aye." 



Then Canterlone he did go out, 
To tell the mayor straight 

To get all things in readiness 
For good Sir Charles's fate. 



Then Master Canning sought the 
king. 
And fell down on his knee : 
"I'm come," quoth he, "unto your 
grace 
To move your clemency." 

xm. 

Then quoth the king, "Your tale 
speak out. 

You have been much our friend ; 
Wliatever your request may be, 

We will to it attend." 

XIV. 

" My noble liege ! all my request 

Is for a noble knight, 
Who, though mayhap he has done 
wrong, 

He thought it still was right: 



"He has a spouse and children 
twain. 

All ruined are for aye, 
If that you are resolved to let 

Charles Bawdin die to-day." 



344 



PARNASSUS. 



" Speak not of such a traitor vile," 

The king in fury said ; 
"Before the evening star doth 
shine, 

Bawdin shall loose his head ; 



" Justice does loudly for him call, 
And he shall have his meed ; 

Speak, Master Canning ! What thing 
else 
At present do you need? " 



"My noble liege," good Canning 
said, 

" Leave justice to our God, 
And lay the iron rule aside ; 

Be thine the olive rod. 

XIX. 

"Was God to search our hearts and 
reins, 

The best were sinners great ; 
Christ's vicar only knows no sin, 

In all this mortal state. 

XX. 

"Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 
'Twill fast thy crown full sure ; 

From race to race thy family 
All sovereigns shall endure : 



"But if with blood and slaughter 
thou 
Begin thy infant reign, 
Thy crown upon thy children's 
brows 
Will never long remain." 



" Canning, away ! this traitor vile 
Has scorned my power and me ; 

How canst thou then for such a man 
Intreat my clemency ? " 



" My noble liege ! the truly brave 
Will val'rous actions prize, 

Respect a brave and noble mind. 
Although in enemies." 



xxrv. 

" Canning, away ! By God in Heav- 
en, 

That did my being give, 
I will not taste a bit of bread 

Whilst this Sir Charles doth live. 

XXV. 

" By Mary and all Saints in Heaven, 
This sun shall be his last;" 

Then Canning dropped a briny tear, 
And from the presence passed. 

XXVI. 

With heart brimful of gnawing grief. 

He to Sir Charles did go, 
And sat him down upon a stool. 

And teares began to flow. 

XXVII. 

"We all must die," quoth brave Sir 
Charles ; 

" What boots it how or when ; 
Death is the sure, the certain fate 

Of all we mortal men. 



"Say, why, my friend, thy honest 
soul 

Runs over at thine eye ; 
Is it for my most welcome doom 

That thou dost child-like cry ? " 



Quoth godly Canning, " I do weep, 
That thou so soon must die. 

And leave thy sons and helpless 
wife; 
'Tis this that wets mine eye." 



" Then dry the tears that out thine 
eye 

From godly fountains spring ; 
Death I despise, and all the power 

Of Edward, traitor king. 



"When through the tyrant's wel- 
come means 

I shall resign my life. 
The God I serve will soon provide 

For both my sons and wife. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



345 



" Before I saw the lightsome sun, 
This was appointed me; 

Shall mortal man repine or grudge 
What God ordains to be ? 



*' How oft in battle have I stood, 
AVlien thousands died around ; 

When smoking streams of crimson 
blood 
Imbrued the fattened ground : 



" How did I know that every dart 

That cut the airy way, 
Might not find passage to my heart. 

And close mine eyes for aye ? 



" And shall I now, for fear of death. 
Look wan and be dismayed ? 

No ! from my heart fly childish fear, 
Be all the man displayed. 

XXXVI. 

" Ah ! Godlike Henry ! God f orf end, 
And guard thee and thy son, 

If 'tis His will; but if 'tis not, 
Why then His will be done. 

XXXVII. 

" My honest friend, my fault has been 
To serve God and my prince ; 

And that I no time-server am. 
My death will soon convince. 

XXXVIII. 

" In London city was I bom, 
Of parents of great note ; 

My father did a noble arms 
Emblazon on his coat : 



" I make no doubt but he is gone 
Where soon I hope to go ; 

Where we forever shall be blest, 
From out the reach of woe ; 



" He taught me justice and the laws 
With pity to unite ; 



And eke he taught me how to know 
The wrong cause from the right : 

Xlil. 

" He taught me with a prudent hand, 

To feed the hungry poor, 
Nor let my servant drive away 

The hungry from my door : 

XliU. 

" And none can say but all my life 

I have his wordys kept ; 
And summed the actions of the 
day 

Each night before I slept. 



" I have a spouse, go ask of her, 

If I defiled her bed? 
I have a king, and iione can lay 

Black treason on my head. 

XLIV. 

" In Lent, and on the holy eve. 

From flesh I did refrain ; 
Why should I then appear dismayed 

To leave this world of pain ? 

XLV. 

" No ! hapless Henry ! I rejoice, 
I shall not see thy death ; 

Most willingly in thy just cause 
Do I resign my breath. . 



"Oh, fickle people! ruined land! 

Thou wilt ken peace nae moe ; 
While Richard's sons exalt them- 
selves, 

Thy brooks with blood will flow. 



" Say, were ye tired of godly peace. 
And godly Henry's reign, 

That you did chop your easy days 
For those of blood and pain ? 



" Wliat though I on a sled be drawn. 

And mangled by a hind ? 
I do defy the traitor's power, 

He can not harm my mind ; 



346 



PARNASSUS. 



" What though, uphoisted on a pole, 

My limbs shall rot in air, 
And no rich monument of brass 

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; 



" Yet in the holy book above, 
Which time can't eat away, 

There with the servants of the Lord 
My name shall live for aye. 



"Then welcome death! for life 
eterne 
I leave this mortal life : 
Farewell, vain world, and all that's 
dear, 
My sons and loving wife ! 



"Now death as welcome to me 
comes, 

As e'er the month of May; 
Nor would I even wish to live, 

With my dear wife to stay." 



Quoth Canning, '"Tis a goodly 
thing 
To be prepared to die ; 
And from this world of pain and 
grief 
To God in Heaven to fly." 



And now the bell began to toll. 

And clarions to sound ; 
Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet 

A prancing on the ground : 



And just before the officers 

His loving wife came in, 
Weeping unfeigned tears of woe, 

With loud and dismal din. 

LTT. 

" Sweet Florence ! now I pray, for- 
bear, — 

In quiet let me die ; 
Pray God that every Christian soul 

May look on death as I. 



"Sweet Florence! why these briny 
tears ? 

They wash my soul away. 
And almost make me wish for life, 

With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 



" 'Tis but a journey I shall go 

Unto the land of bliss ; 
Now, as a proof of husband's love, 

Receive this holy kiss." 

LIX. 

Then Florence, faltering in her say, 
Trembling these wordys spoke, 

" Ah, cruel Edward ! bloody king ! 
My heart is well nigh broke : 



"Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt 
thou go, 

Without thy loving wife ! 
The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, 

It eke shall end my life." 



And now the officers came in 
To bring Sir Charles away, 

Wlio turned to his loving wife, 
And thus to her did say : 



" I go to life, and not to death ; 

Trust thou in God above. 
And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, 

And in their hearts Him love : 

Lxni. 

" Teach them to run the noble race 

That I their father run : 
Florence ! should death thee take, ^~ 
adieu ! 

Te officers, lead on," 



Then Florence raved as any mad, 

And did her tresses tear ; 
"Oh! stay, my husband! lord! and 
life!" — 

Sir Charles then dropped a tear. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



347 



LXV. 



Till tired out with raving loud, 

She fellen on the floor ; 
Sir Charles exerted all his might, 

And marched from out the door. 



Upon a sled he mounted then, 
With looks full brave and sweet; 

Looks that enshone ne more concern 
Than any in the street. 

LXVII. 

Before him went the council-men, 
In scarlet robes and gold, 

And tassels spangling in the sun, 
Much glorious to behold : 



The friars of Saint Augustine next 

Appeared to the sight. 
All clad in homely russet weeds, 

Of godly monkish plight : 

LXIX. 

In different parts a godly psalm 
Most sweetly did they chant ; 

Behind their backs six minstrels 
came. 
Who tuned the strung bataunt. 



Then five and twenty archers came ; 

Each one the bow did bend, 
From rescue of King Henry's friends 

Sir Charles for to defend. 

LXXI. 

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, 
Drawn on a cloth-laid sled, 

By two black steeds in trappings 
white, 
With plumes upon their head : 



Behind him five and twenty more 
Of archers strong and stout. 

With bended bow each one in hand. 
Marched in goodly rout : 



Saint James's Friars marched next. 
Each one his part did chant; 



Behind their backs six minstrels 
came, 
Who tuned the strung bataunt : 



Then came the mayor and aldermen, 
In cloth of scarlet decked ; 

A.nd their attending-men each one. 
Like Eastern princes trickt. 



And after them a multitude 

Of citizens did throng : 
The windows were all full of heads, 

As he did pass along. 



And when he came to the high cross, 
Sir Charles did turn and say, 

" O Thou, that savest man from sin, 
Wash my soul clean this day!" 



At the great minster window sat 
The king in mickle state, 

To see Charles Bawdin go along 
To his most welcome fate. 



Soon as the sled drew nigh enough, 
That Edward he might hear. 

The brave Sir Charles he did stand 
up, 
And thus his words declare : 



"Thou seest me, Edward! traitor 
vile! 

Exposed to infamy; 
But be assured, disloyal man ! 

I'm greater now than thee. 



" By foul proceedings, murder, blood, 
Thou wearest now a crown ; 

And hast appointed me to die, 
By power not thine own. 



" Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; 

I have been dead till now, 
And soon shall live to wear a crown 

For aye upon my brow ; 



348 



PAKNASSUS. 



Lxxxn. 

"Wliilst thou, perhaps, for some 
few years. 

Shall rule this fickle land, 
To let them know how wide the rule 

'Twixt king and tyrant hand: 

LXXXIII. 

"Thy power unjust, thou traitor 
slave ! 

Shall fall on thy own head " — 
From out of hearing of the king 

Departed then the sled. 

LXXXIV. 

King Edward's soule rushed to his 
face. 

He turned his head away. 
And to his brother Gloucester 

He thus did speak and say : 

LXXXV. 

" To him that so-much-dreaded death 

No ghastly terrors bring ; 
Behold the man ! he spake the truth, 

He's greater than a king ! " 



" So let him die ! " Duke Kichard said ; 

" And may each one our foes 
Bend down their necks to bloody axe. 

And feed the carrion crows." 



And now the horses gently drew 
Sir Charles up the high hill ; 

The axe did glister in the sun, 
His precious blood to spill. 

LXXXVIII. 

Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, 

As up a gilded car 
Of victory, by val'rous chiefs 

Gained in the bloody war : 



And to the people he did say, 
" Behold you see me die. 

For serving loyally my king, 
My king most rightfully. 



"As long as Edward rules this land. 
No quiet will you know ; 



Your sons and husbands shall be 
slain, 
And brooks with blood shall flow. 



"You leave your good and lawful 
king. 

When in adversity; 
Like me, unto the true cause stick, 

And for the true cause die." 



Then he, with priests, upon his knees, 
A prayer to God did make, 

Beseeching Him unto Himself 
His parting soul to take. 



Then, kneeling down, he laid his head 

Most seemly on the block ; 
Which from his body fair at once 
The able headsman stroke ; 



And out the blood began to flow, 
And round the scaffold twine ; 

And tears, enough to wash't away, 
Did flow from each man's eyne. 



The bloody axe his body fair 

Into four partes cut ; 
And every part and eke his head, 

Upon a pole was put. 



One part did rot on Kynwulft-hill, 
One on the minster tower, 

And one from off the castle-gate 
The crowen did devour ; 



The other on St. Powle's good gate, 

A dreary spectacle ; 
His head was placed on the high cross, 

In high-street most nobel. 

XCVIII. 

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: 
God prosper long our king, 

Andgranthemay,withBawdin's soul, 
In heaven God's mercy sing! 

Thomas Chatterton, 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



349 



THE MASS. 

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, 
And aruas infolded on his breast, 

Did every pilgrim go; 
The standers-by might lieai- iineath, 
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn 
breath, 

Through all the lengthened row: 
No lordly look, nor martial stride, 
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride, 

Forgotten their renown; 
Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide 
To the high altar's hallowed side. 

And there they knelt them down : 
Above the suppliant chieftains wave 
The banners of departed brave ; 
Beneath the lettered stones were laid 
The ashes of their fathers dead ; 
From many a garnished niche around. 
Stern saints and tortured martyrs 
frowned. 

And slow up the dim aisle afar. 
With sable cowl and scapular, 
And snow-white stoles, in order due. 
The holy Fathers, two and two. 

In long procession came : 
Taper, and host, and book they bare. 
And holy banner, flourished fair 

With the Redeemer's name. 
Above the prostrate pilgrim band 
The mitred Abbot stretched his hand. 

And blessed them as they kneeled ; 
With holy cross he signed them all. 
And prayed they might be sage in hall. 

And fortunate in field. 
Then mass was sung, and prayers 

were said, 
And solemn requiem for the dead ; 
And bells tolled out their mighty peal, 
For the departed spirit's weal; 
And ever in the office close 
The hymn of intercession rose ; 
And far the echoing aisles prolong 
Tlie awful burden of the song, — 

Dies ir^, Dies illa 

SOLVET S.ECLUM IN Fa VILLA ; 

Wliile the pealing organ rung; 
Were it meet with "sacred strain 
To close my lay, so light and vain, 
Thus the holy Fathers sung : — 

HYMN FOR THE DEAD. 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
Wlien heaven and earth shall pass 
away. 



What power shall be the sinner's 

stay? 
How shall he meet that dreadful 

day? 

When, shrivelling like a parched 

scroll, 
The flaming heavens together roll; 
When louder yet, and yet more 

dread. 
Swells the high trump that wakes 

the dead ! 

Oh! on that day, that wrathful 

day. 
When man to judgment wakes from 

clay. 
Be Thou the trembling sinner's 

stay. 
Though heaven and earth shall pass 



away! 



Scott. 



FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

"And whither would you lead me 
then?" 

Quoth the Friar of orders gray ; 
And the ruffians twain replied again, 

" By a dying woman to pray." — 

"I see," he said, " a lovely sight, 
A sight bodes little harm, 

A lady as a lily bright, 
With an infant on her arm." — 

" Then do thine office, Friar gray, 
And see thou shrive her free ! 

Else shall the sprite that parts to- 
night. 
Fling all its guilt on thee. 

" Let mass be said, and trentals read, 
Wlien thou'rt to convent gone. 

And bid the bell of St. Benedict 
Toll out its deepest tone." 

The shrift is done, the Friar is gone, 
Blindfolded as he came ; — 

Next morning all, in Littlecot Hall 
Were weeping for their dame. 

Wild Darrell is an altered man. 

The village crones can tell ; 
He looks pale as clay, and strives to 

pf'Wi 
If he hears the convent bell. 



350 



PARNASSUS. 



If prince or peer cross Darrell'sway, 
He'll beard him in his pride ; — 

If he meet a Friar of orders gray, 
He droops and turns aside. 

Scott. 



GR^ME AND BEWICK. 

GuDE Lord Graeme is to Carlisle 
gane: 
Sir Robert Bewick there met he ; 
And arm in arm to the wine they 
did go, 
And they drank till they were 
baith merrie. 

Gude Lord Graeme has ta'en up the 
cup, 
" Sir Robert Bewick, and here's 
to thee ! 
And here's to our twae sons at hame ! 
For they like us best in our ain 
countrie." — 

" O were your son a lad like mine. 
And learned some books that he 
could read, 
They might hae been twae brethren 
bauld. 
And they might hae bragged the 
Border side. 

"But your son's a lad, and he is 
but bad. 
And billie to my son he canna be : 



" Ye sent him to school, and he 
wadna learn : 
Ye bought him books, and he 
wadna read." — 
" But my blessing shall he never 
earn. 
Till I see how his arm can defend 
his head." — 

Gude Lord Graeme has a reckoning 
called ; 
A reckoning then called he ; 
And he paid a crown, and it went 
roun' ; 
It was all for the gude wine and 
free. 

And he has to the stable gane. 
Where there stude thirty steeds 
and three ; 



He's ta'en his ain horse amangthem 
a', 
And hame he rade sae manfuUie. 

'•Welcome, my auld father!" said 
Christie Graeme, 
" But where sae lang frae hame 
were ye? " — 
" It's I hae been at Carlisle town, 
And a baffled man by thee I be. 

" I hae been at Carlisle town. 
Where Sir Robert Bewick he met 
me; 
He says ye' re a lad, and ye are but 
bad. 
And billie to his son ye canna be. 

" I sent ye to school, and ye wadna 
learn ; 
I bought ye boolis, and ye wadna 
read; 
Wlierefore my blessing ye shall 
never earn. 
Till I see with Bewick thou save 
thy head.'' 

" Now, God forbid, my auld father; 

That ever sic a thing suld be ! 
Billie Bewick was my master, and 
I was his scholar. 
And aye sae weel as he learned 
me." — 

"O hald thy tongue, thou limmer 
loon. 
And of thy talking let me be ! 
If thou does na end me this quarrel 
soon. 
There is my glove, I'll fight wi' 
thee." — 

Then Christie Graeme he stooped 
low 
Unto the ground, you shall under- 
stand ; — 
" O father, put on your glove again, 
The wind has blown it from your 
hand?" — 

" Wliat's that thou says, thou limmer 
loon? 

How dares thou stand to speak to 
me? 
If thou do not end this quarre^ 
soon. 

There's my right hand, thou shal| 
fight with me." — 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



351 



Then Christie Graeme's to his cham- 
hor g.iiie, 
To cousiider weel what then should 
be; 
Wlietlier he should fight with his 
auld father, 
Or with his billie Bewick, he. 

" If I suld kill my billie dear, 
God's biessiiio; I shall never win; 

But if I strike at my auld father, 
I think 'twald be a mortal sin. 

" But if I kill my billie dear, 

It is God's will, so let it be ; 
But I make a vow, ere I gang frae 

hame, 
That I shall be the next man's 

die." — 

Then he's put on's back a gude auld 
jack, 
And on his head a cap of steel, 
And sword and buckler by his side ; 

gin he did not become them weel ! 

We'll leave off talking of Christie 
Graeme, 
And talk of him again belive ; 
And we will talk of bonny Bewick, 
Wliere he was teaching his 
scholars five. 

Wlien he had taught them well to 
fence, 
And handle swords without any 
doiibt. 
He took his sword under his arm. 
And he walked his father's close 
about. 

He looked atween him and the sun, 
And a' to see what there might be. 

Till he spied a man in armour bright, 
Was riding that way most hastilie. 

" O wha is yon that came this way, 

Sae hastilie that hither came ? 
I think it be my brother dear ! 

1 think it be young Christie 

Graeme. — 

" Ye' re welcome here, my billie dear 
And thrice ye' re welcome unto 
me! " — 

" But I'm wae to say, I've seen the 
T^ tlay, 
When I am come to fight wi' thee. 



" My father's gane to Carlisle town, 
Wi' your father Bewick there 
met he: 

He says I'm a lad, and I am but bad, 
And a baffled man I trow I be. 

" He sent me to school, and I wadna 
learn; 
He gae me books, and I wadna 
read ; 
Sae my father's blessing I'll never 
earn. 
Till he see how my arm can guard 
my head." — 

" O God forbid, my billie dear, 
That ever such a thing suld be ! 

We'll take three men on either side, 
And see if we can our fathers 
agree." — 

" O hald thy tongue, now, billie 
Bewick, 
And of thy talking let me be ! 
But if thou'rt a man, as I'm sure 
thou art. 
Come o'er the dyke, and fight wi' 
me." — 

"But I hae nae harness, billie, on 
my back. 
As weel I see there is on thine." — 
" But as little harness as is on thy 
back, 
As little, billie, shall be on 
mine." — 

Then he's thrown aff his coat o' 
mail 

His cap of steel away flung he ; 
He stuck his spear into the ground, 

And he tied his horse unto a tree. 

Then Bewick has thrown aff his 
cloak, 
And's psalter-book frae's hand 
flung he ; 
He laid his hand upon the dyke, 
And ower he lap most manfullie. 

O they hae fought for twae lang 
hours ; 
When twae lang hours were come 
and gane, 
The sweat drapped fast frae aflf them 
baith. 
But a drap of blude could not be 
seen. 



352 



PARNASSUS. 



Till Grfeme gae Bewick an ack- 
ward stroke, 
Ane ackward stroke strucken 
sickerlie ; 
He has hit him under the left breast, 
And dead-wounded to the ground 
fell he. 

" Kise up, rise up, now, billie dear! 
Arise and speak three words to 

me! — 
Whether thou's gotten thy deadly 

wound. 
Or if God and good leeching may 

succour thee ? " — 

" O horse, O horse, now, billie 
Grseme, 
And get thee far from hence with 
speed : 
And get thee out of this country, 
That none may know who has 
done the deed." — 

" O I hae slain thee, billie Bewick, 
If this be true thou tellest to me ; 

But I made a vow, ere I came frae 
hame. 
That aye the next man I wad be." 

He has pitched his sword in a 

moodie-hill. 

And he has leaped twenty lang 

feet and three. 

And on his ain sword's point he lap. 

And dead upon the ground fell he. 

'Twas then came up Sir Kobert 
Bewick, 
And his brave son alive saw he ; 
" Rise up, rise up, my son," he said, 
"For I think ye hae gotten the 
victorie." — 

" O hald your tongue, my father dear ! 

Of your pridef ul talking let me be ! 
Ye might hae drunken your wine in 
peace. 

And let me and my billie be. 

" Gae dig a grave, baith wide and 
deep. 
And a grave to hald baith him 
and me ; 
But lay Christie Graeme on the 
sunny side, 
"For I'm sure he wan the vic- 
torie." 



" Alack ! a wae ! " auld Bewick cried. 

" Alack ! was I not much to blame ? 
I'm sure I've lost the liveliest lad 

That e'er was born unto my 
name." 

"Alack! a wae!" quo' gude Lord 
Grasme, 
"I'm sure I hae. lost the deeper 
lack! 
I durst hae ridden the Border 
through, 
Had Christie Graeme been at my 
back. 

" Had I been led through Liddesdale, 
And thirty horseman guarding me, 

And Christie Graeme been ait my 
back, 
Sae soon as he had set me free ! 

"I've lost my hopes, I've lost my joy, 

I've lost the key but and the lock : 

I durst hae ridden the world round, 

Had Christie Grteme been at my 

back." 

Scott's Border Minstrelsy. 



KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT 
OF CANTEEBURY. 

An ancient story I'll tell you anon 

Of a notable prince that was called 
King John ; 

And he ruled England with main 
and with might. 

For he did great wrong, and main- 
tained little right. 

And I'll tell you a story, a story so 
merry 

Concerning the Abbot of Canter- 
bury ; 

How for his house-keeping and high 
renown. 

They rode poste for him to fair Lon- 
don towne. 

An hundred men the king did heare 

The abbot kept in his house every 

day; 
And fifty golde chaynes without any 

doubt, 
In velvet coates waited the abbot 

about. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



353 



" How now, father abbot, I heare it 

of thee. 
Thou keepest a farre better house 

than mee ; 
And for thy house-keeping and high 

renowne, 
I feare thou work'st treason against 

my crown." 

" My liege" quo' the abbot, "I would 

it were knowne 
I never spend nothing, but what is 

my owne ; 
And I trust your grace will doe me 

no deere, 
For spending of my owne true-gotten 

geere." 

"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault 

it is highe. 
And now for the same thou needest 

must dye ; 
For except thou canst answer me 

questions three. 
Thy head shall be smitten from thy 

bodie. ' 

"And first," quo' the king, "when 

I'm in this stead, 
With my crowne of golde so faire on 

my head, 
Among all my liege-men so noble of 

birthe. 
Thou must tell me to one penny 

what I am worthe. 

"Secondly, tell me, without any 

doubt, 
How soone I may ride the whole 

world about ; 
And at the third question thou must 

not shrink, 
But tell me here truly what I do 

think." 

" O these are hard questions for my 

shallow witt. 
Nor I cannot answer your grace as 

yet: 
But if you will give me but three 

weeks space, 
He do my endeavour to answer your 

grace." 

" Now three weeks space to thee 

will I give. 
And that is the longest time thou 

hast to live ; 
23 



For if thou dost not answer my 
questions three. 

Thy lands and thy livings are for- 
feit to mee." 

Away rode the abbot all sad at that 

word, 
And he rode to Cambridge, and 

Oxenf ord ; 
But never a doctor there was so 

wise, 
That could with his learning an 

answer devise. 

Then home rode the abbot of com- 
fort so cold. 

And he met his shepheard a-going to 
fold: 

" How naw, my lord abbot, you are 
welcome home ; 

What newes do you bring us from 
good King John?" 

"Sad news, sad news, shepheard, I 

must give. 
That I have but three days more to 

live; 
For if I do not answer him questions 

three, 
My head will be smitten from my 

body. 

" The first is to tell him, there in 

that stead. 
With his crowne of golde so fair on 

his head, 
Among all his liege-men so noble of 

birth. 
To within one penny of what he is 

worth. 

"The seconde, to tell him without 

any doubt, 
How soone he may ride this whole 

world about ; 
And at the third question I must 

not shrinke. 
But tell him there truly what he 

does thinke." 

" Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you 

never hear yet. 
That a fool he may learne a wise 

man witt ? 
Lend me horse, and serving men, 

and your apparel, 
And He ride to London to answere 

your quarrel. 



354 



PARNASSUS. 



" Nay frowne not, if it hath bin 

told unto me, 
I am Hke your lordship, as ever may 

be; 
And if you will but lend me your 

gowne, 
There is none shall know us at fair 

London towne." 

" Now horses and serving-men thou 

shalt have, 
With sumptuous array most gallant 

and brave, 
"With crozier, and miter, and rochet, 

and cope, 
Fit to appear 'fore our fader the 

pope." 

"Now welcome, sire abbot," the 

king he did say, 
"Tis well thou'rt come back to 

keepe thy day : 
For and if thou canst answer my 

questions three, 
Thy life and thy living both savfed 

shall be. 

" And first, when thou seest me here 

in this stead. 
With my crowne of golde so fair on 

my head. 
Among all my liege-men so noble of 

birthe. 
Tell me to one penny what I am 

worth." 

" For thirty pence our Saviour was 

sold 
Among the false Jewes, as I have 

bin told : 
And twenty-nine is the worth of 

thee. 
For I thinke thou art one penny 

worser than he." 

The king he laughed, and swore by 

St. Bittel, 
"I did not think I had been worth 

so littel ! 
— Now secondly tell me, without 

any doubt. 
How soone I may ride this whole 

world about." 

"You must rise with the sun, and 

ride with the same 
Until the next morning he riseth 

agaiue : 



And then your grace need not make 

any doubt 
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride 

it about." 

The king he laughed, and swore by 

St. Jone, 
' ' I did not think it could be gone so 

soone ! 
— Now from the third question thou 

must not shrinke. 
But tell me here truly what I do 

thinke." 

" Yea, that shall I do, and make 
your grace merry ; 

You thinke I'm the abbot of Canter- 
bury; 

But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain 
you may see. 

That am come to beg pardon for 
him and for me." 

The king he laughed, and swore by 

the Masse, 
"He make thee lord abbot this day 

in his place!" 
"Now naye, my liege, be not in 

such speede, 
For alacke I can neither write ne 

reade." 

"Four nobles a week, then I will 

give thee, 
For this merry jest thou hast showne 

unto me ; 
And tell the old abbot when thou 

comest home. 
Thou hast brought him a pardon 

from good King John." 

Percy's Keliques. 



THE SALLY FKOM COVEN- 
TEY. 

" Passion o' me!" cried Sir Kichard 
Tyrone, 

Spurning the sparks from the broad 
paving-stone, 

"Better turn nurse and rock chil- 
dren to sleep. 

Than yield to a rebel old Coventry 
Keep. 

No, by my halidom, no one shall 
say, 

Sir Richard Tyrone gave a city 
away." 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



355 



Passion o' nie I how he pulled at his 
beard ! 

Fretting and chafing if any one 
sneered, 

Clapping his breastplate and shak- 
ing his fist, 

Giving his grizzly moustachios a 
twist, 

Running the protocol through with 
his steel. 

Grinding the letter to mud with his 
heel. 

Then he roared out for a pottle of 

sack, 
Clapped the old trumpeter twice on 

the back. 
Leaped on his bay with a dash and 

a swing. 
Bade all the bells in the city to ring. 
And when the red flag from the 

steeple went down, \ 
Open they flu%g every gate liu the 

town. 

To boot! and to horse! and away 
like a flood, 

A 'fire in their eyes, and a sting in 
their blood ; 

Hurrying out with a flash and a 
flare, 

A roar of hot guns, a loud trumpet- 
er's blare. 

And first, sitting proud as a king on 
his throne. 

At the head of them all dashed Sir 
Richard Tyrone. 

Crimson, and yellow, and purple 

and dun. 
Fluttering scarf, flowing bright in 

the sun, 
Steel like a mirror on brow and on 

breast. 
Scarlet and white on their feather 

and crest, 
Banner that blew in a torrent of red, 
Borne by Sir Richard, who rode at 

their head. 

The "trumpet" went down — with 

a gash on his poll, 
Struck by the parters of body and 

soul. 
Foi'ty saddles were empty; the 

horses ran red 
With foul Puritan blood from the 

slashes that bled. 



Curses and cries and a gnashing of 

teeth, 
A grapple and stab on the slippery 

heath, 
And Sir Richard leaped up on the 

fool that went down, 
Proud as a conqueror donning his 

crown. 
They broke them away through a 

flooding of fire. 
Trampling the best blood of London 

to mire, 
Wlien suddenly rising a smoke and 

a blaze, 
Made all "the dragon's sons " stai'e 

in amaze : 
"O ho!" quoth Sir Richard, "my 

city grows hot, 
I've left it rent-paid to the villainous 

Scot." 

G. W. Thoknbuky. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE 
GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT 
TO AIX. 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris 
and he ; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we gal- 
loped all three ; 

"Good speed!" cried the watch as 
the gate-bolts undrew, 

"Speed!" echoed the wall to us 
galloping through ; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights 
sank to rest. 

And into the midnight we galloped 
abreast. 

Not a word to each other : we kept 

the great pace 
Neck and neck, stride by stride,' 

never changing our place. 
I turned in my saddle and made its 

girths tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup and set 

the pique right, 
Re-buckled the check-strap, chained 

slacker the bit ; 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a 

whit. 

'Twas moonset at starting, but while 

we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight 

dawned clear ; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came 

out to see, 



B56 



PARNASSUS. 



At Diiffekl, 'twas morning as plain 

as could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple 

we heard the half chime ; 
So Joris broke silence with "Yet 

there is time." 

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden 
the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood 
black every one 

To stare through the mist at us gal- 
loping past, 

And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, 
at last. 

With resolute shoulders each but- 
ting away 

The haze, as some bluff river head- 
land its spray. 

And his low head and crest, just one 
sharp ear bent back 

For my voice, and the other pricked 
out on his track ; 

And one eye's black intelligence, — 
ever that glance 

O'er its white edge at me, its own 
master, askance ! 

And the thick heavy spume-flakes, 
which aye and anon 

His fierce lips shook upwards in gal- 
loping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and 
cried Joris, " Stay spur! 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the 
fault's not in her, 

We'll remember at Aix ; " — for one 
heard the quick wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched 
neck and staggering knees. 

And sunk tail, and'horrible heave of 
the flank, 

As down on her haunches she shud- 
dered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Lonz and jjast Tongres, no 
cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a piti- 
less laugh, 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle 
bright stubble like chaff ; 

Till over by Dalhelm a dome-spire 
sprang white, 

A-nd " Gallop," gasped Joris, "for 
Aix is in sight!" 



"How they'll greet us!" — and all 
in a moment his roan 

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead 
as a stone, 

And there was my Roland to bear 
the whole weight 

Of the news, which alone could save 
Aix from her fate. 

With his nostrils like pits full of 
blood to the brim, 

And with circles of red for his eye- 
socket's rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each 
holster let fall, 

Shook off botli my jack-boots, let go 
belt and all. 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, 
patted his ear. 

Called my Roland his pet name, my 
horse without peer ; 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, 
any noise bad or good. 

Till at length into Aix Roland gal- 
loped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flock- 
ing round. 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my 
knees on the ground, 

And no voice but was praising this 
Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our 
last measure of wine. 

Which, (the burgesses voted by com- 
mon consent,) 

Was no more than his due who 
brought good news from 
Ghent. 

Robert Bkowning. 



LOCHINVAR. 

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of 

the west, 
Through all the wide Border his 

steed was the best ; 
And save his good broadsword, he 

weapon had none. 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all 

alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless 

in war. 
There never was knight like tha 

young Lochinvar. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



357 



He staid not for brake, and he 

stopped not for stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford 

there was none ; 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
Tlie bride had consented, the gallant 

came late ; 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard 

in war, 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave 

Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the ISTetherby 

Hall, 
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and 

brothers and all : 
Then spoke the bride's father, his 

hand on his sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said 

never a word, ) 
" O come ye in peace here, or come 

ye in war. 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 

Lochinvar?" — 

" I long wooed your daughter, my 

suit you denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but 

ebbs like its tide — 
And now am I come, with this lost 

love of mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one 

cup of wine. 
Tliere are maidens in Scotland more 

lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the 

young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet: the 

knight took it up. 
He quaffed off the wine, and he 

threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she 

looked up to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear 

in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her 

mother could bar, — 
"Now tread we a measure !" said 

young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her 

face. 
That never a hall such a galliard did 

grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her 

father did fume. 



And the bridegroom stood dangling 
his bonnet and plume ; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, 
" 'Twere better by far. 

To have matched our fair cousin 
with young Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word 

in her ear, 
Wlien tliey reached the hall-door, 

and the charger stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady 

he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he 



sprung 



"She is won! we are gone, over 
bank, bush, and scaur ; 

They'll have fleet steeds that fol- 
low," quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes 

of the Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, 

they rode and they ran : 
There was racing and cliasing on 

Cannobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er 

did tliey see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless 

in war. 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like 

young Lochinvar ? 

Scott. 



RHOTRUDA. 

In the golden reign of Charlemagne 

the king. 
The three and thirtieth year, or 

thereabout. 
Young Eginardus, bred about the 

court, 
(Left mother-naked at a postern- 
door, ) 
Had thence by slow degrees ascended 

lip; — 
First page, then pensioner, lastly the 

king's knight 
And secretary ; yet held these steps 

for naught 
Save as they led him to the Princess' 

feet, 
Eldest and loveliest of the regal 

three. 
Most gracious too, and liable to love : 
For Bertha was betrothed ; and she, 

the third, 



358 



PARNASSUS. 



Giselia, would not look upon a man. 
So, bending his whole heart unto 

this end, 
He watched and waited, trusting to 

stir to fire 
The indolent interest in those large 

eyes, 
And feel the languid hands beat in 

his own. 
Ere the new spring. And well he 

played his part ; 
Slipping no chance to bribe, or brush 

aside, 
All that would stand between him 

and the light ; 
Making fast foes in sooth, but feeble 

friends. 
But what cared he, who had read of 

ladies' love, 
And how young Launcelot gained 

his Guinevere ; 
A foundling too, or of uncertain 

strain ? 
And when one morning, coming 

from the bath. 
He crossed the Princess on the pal- 
ace-stair. 
And kissed her there in her sweet 

disarray. 
Nor met the death he dreamed of, in 

her eyes, — 
He knew himself a hero of (old) 

romance ; 
Not seconding, but surpassing, what 

had been. 

And so they loved ; if that tumultu- 
ous pain 

Be love, — disquietude of deep de- 
light, 

And sharpest sadness : nor though 
he knew her heart 

His very own, — gained on the in- 
stant too. 

And like a waterfall that at one leap 

Plunges from pines to palms, — shat- 
tered at once 

To wreaths of mist, and broken 
spray-bows bright. 

He loved not less, nor wearied of 
her smile ; 

But through the daytime held aloof 
and strange 

His walk; mingling with knightly 
mirth and game ; 

Solicitous but to avoid alone 

Aught that might make against him 
in her mind ; 



Yet strong in this, — that, let the 

world have end, 
He had pledged his own, and held 

Khotruda's troth. 

But Love, who had led these lovers 

thus along, 
Played them a trick one windy night 

and cold : 
For Eginardus, as his wont had 

been. 
Crossing the quadrangle, and under 

dark, — 
No faint moonshine, nor sign of any 

star, — 
Seeking the Princess' door, such 

welcome found, 
The knight forgot his prudence in 

his love ; 
For lying at her feet, her hands in 

his, 
And telling tales of knightship and 

emprise. 
And ringing war; while up the 

smooth white arm 
His fingers slid insatiable of touch. 
The night grew old : still of the hero- 
deeds 
That he had seen, he spoke; and 

bitter blows 
Where all the land se6med driven 

into dust ! 
Beneath fair Pavia's wall, where 

Loup beat down 
The Longobard, and Charlemagne 

laid on. 
Cleaving horse and rider; then, for 

dusty drought 
Of the fierce tale, he drew her lips 

to his. 
And silence locked the lovers fast 

and long, 
Till the great bell crashed One into 

their dream. 

The castle-bell! and Eginard not 



away 



With tremulous haste she led him 

to the door, 
Wlien, lo ! the courtyard white with 

fallen snow. 
While clear the night hung over it 

with stars, 
A dozen steps, scarce that, to his 

own door ; 
A dozen steps ? a gulf impassable ! 
What to be done? Their secret 

must not lie 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



359 



Bare to the sneering eye with the 

first light; 
She could not have his footsteps at 

her door ! 
Discovery and destruction were at 

hand : 
And, with the tliought, they kissed, 

and kissed again; 
"When suddenly the lady, bending, 

drew 
Her lover towards her half-unwil- 

liugly, 

And on her shoulder's fairly took him 
there, — 

"\yiio held his breath to lighten all 
his weight, — 

And lightly carried him the court- 
yard's length 

To liis own door ; then, like a fright- 
ened hare, 

Fled back in her own tracks unto 
her bower, 

To pant awhile, and rest, that all 
was safe. 

But Charlemagne the king, who had 

risen by night 
To look upon memorials, or at 

ease 
To read and sign an ordinance of 

the realm, — 
The Fanolehen, or Cunigosteura 
For tithing corn, so to confirm the 

same. 
And stamp it with the pommel of 

his sword, — 
Hearing their voices in the court 

below, 
Looked from his window, and beheld 

the pair. 

Angry, the king; yet laughing-half 

to view 
The strangeness and vagary of the 

feat; 
Laughmg indeed ! with twenty minds 

to call 
From his inner bed-chamber the 

Forty forth, 
Who watched all night beside their 

monarch's bed. 
With naked swords and torches in 

their hands, 
And test this lover' s-knot with steel 

and fire ; 
But with a thought, " To-morrow 

yet will serve 



To greet these mummers," softly the 

window closed, 
And so went back to liis corn-tax 

again. 

But, witli the morn, the king a meet- 
ing called 

Of all liis lords, courtiers and kin- 
dred too, 

And squire and dame, — in the great 
Audience Hall 

Gathered ; where sat the king, with 
the high crown 

Upon his brow ; beneath a drapery 

That fell around him like a cataract, 

With flecks of colour crossed and can- 
cellate ; 

And over this, like trees about a 
stream, 

Ricli carven-work, heavy with wreath 
and rose, 

Palm and palmirah, fruit and fron- 
dage, hung. 

And more the liigh Hall lield of rare 

and strange ; 
For on the king's right hand Lesena 

bowed 
In cloudlike marble, and beside her 

crouched 
The tongueless lioness ; on the other 

side. 
And poising this, the second Sappho 

stood, — 
Young Erexce'a, with lier head dis- 
crowned. 
The anadema on the liorn of her 

lyre; 
And by the walls there hung in 

sequence long 
Merlin himself, and Uterpendragon, 
With all their mighty deeds ; down 

to the day 
Wlien all the world seemed lost in 

wreck and rout, — 
A wratli of crashing steeds and men ; 

and, in 
The broken battle fighting hope- 
lessly. 
King Arthur, with the ten wounds 

on his head ! 

But not to gaze on these, appeared 

the peers. 
Stern looked the king, and, when the 

court was met, — 
The lady and her lover in the 

midst, — 



360 



PARNASSUS. 



Spoke to his lords, demanding them 

of this : 
" Wliat merits he, the servant of the 

king, 
Forgetful of his place, his trust, his 

oath, 
Wlio, for his own bad end, to hide 

his fault, 
Makes use of her, a Princess of the 

realm, 
As of a mule ; — a beast of burthen ! 

— borne 
Upon her shoulders through the 

■winter's night. 
And wind and snow ? " — " Death ! " 

said the angry lords ; 
And knight and squire and minion 

murmured, "Death!" 
Not one discordant voice. But 

Charlemagne, 
Though to his foes a circulating 

sword. 
Yet, as a king, mild, gracious, exora- 

ble. 
Blest in his children too, with but 

one born 
To vex his flesh like an ingrowing 

nail, — 
Looked kindly on the trembling pair, 

and said : 
"Yes, Eginardus, well hast thou 

deserved 
Death for this thing ; for, hadst thou 

loved her so. 
Thou shouldst have sought her 

Father's will in this, — 
Protector and disposer of his child, — 
And asked her hand of him, her lord 

and thine. 
Thy life is forfeit here ; but take it, 

thou ! — 
Take even two lives for this forfeit 

one; 
And thy fair portress — wed her; 

honour God, 
Love one another, and obey the 

king." 

Thus far the legend; but of Rho- 

trude's smile. 
Or of the lords' applause, as truly 

they 
Would have applauded their first 

judgment too. 
We nothing learn : yet still the story 

lives ; 
Shines like a light across those dark 

old days, 



Wonderful glimpse of woman's wit 

and love ; 
And worthy to be chronicled with 

hers 
Who to her lover dear threw down 

her hair. 
When all the garden glanced with 

angry blades ! 
Or like a picture framed in battle- 
pikes 
And bristling swords, it hang? before 

our view ; — 
The palace-court white with the 

fallen snow, 
The good king leaning out into the 

night 
And Ehotrude bearing Eginard on 

her back. 

TUCKEKMAN. 



GLENLOGIE. 

Thkee score o' nobles rade up the 

king's ha'. 
But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' 

them a', 
Wi' his milk-white steed and his 

bonnie black e'e, 
" Glenlogie, dear niither, Glenlogie 

for me ! ' ' 

"O hand your tongue, daughter, 
ye'll get better than he ; " 

"O say nae sae, mither, for that 
canna be ; 

Though Doumlie is richer, and 
greater than he. 

Yet if I maun tak him, I'll certain- 
ly dee. 

" Where will I get a bonnie boy, to 

win hose and shoon. 
Will gae to Glenlogie, and come 

again soon?" 
" O here am I a bonnie boy, to win 

hose and shoon. 
Will gae to Glenlogie and come 

again soon." 

When he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas 

" wash and go dine ; " 
'Twas " wash ye, my pretty boy, wash 

and go dine," 
" O 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, 

and it ne'er shall be mine 
To gar a lady's hasty errand wait til\ 

I dine." 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



361 



" But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for 

tliee;" 
The first Hne that he read, a low 

smile gave he, 
The next line that he read, the tear 

blindit his e'e; 
But the last line that he read, he 

gart the table flee. 

" Gar saddle the black horse, gar 

saddle the brown ; 
Gar saddle the swiftest tteed e'er 

rade frae a town ; " 
But lang ere the horse was drawn 

and brought to the green, 
O bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his 

lane. 

When he came to Glenfeldy's door, 

little mirth was there ; 
Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing 

her hair; 
"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're 

welcome," said she, 
" Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your 

Jeanie to see." 

Pale and wan was she, when Glenlo- 
gie gaed ben. 

But red and rosy grew she, whene'er 
he sat down ; 

She turned awa' her head, but the 
smile was in her e'e, 

"O binna feared, mither, I'll maybe 
no dee." 
Smith's Scottish Minstrel. 



THE GAY GOSS-HAWK. 

" O WALY, waly, my gay goss-hawk. 
Gin your feathering be sheen!" 
"And waly, waly, my master dear, 
Gin ye look pale and lean ! " 

" O have ye tint, at tournament. 
Your sword, or yet your spear? 
Or mourn ye for the southern lass, 
^\liom ye may not win near? " 

** I have not tint, at tournament. 
My sword nor yet my spear ; 
But sair I mourn for my true love, 
Wi' mony a bitter tear, 

" But weel's me on ye, my gay goss- 
hawk, 
Ye can baith speak and flee ; 



Ye sail carry a letter to my love. 
Bring an answer back to me." 

" But how sail I your true love find, 
Or how suld I her know ? 
I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, 
An eye that ne'er her saw." 

" O weel sail ye my true love ken, 
Sae sune as ye her see ; 
For, of a' the flowers of fair Eng- 
land, 
The faii-est flower is she. 

" The red, that's on my true love's 

cheek, 
Is like blood-drops on the snaw ; 
The white, that is on her breast 

bare. 
Like the down o' the white sea-maw. 

" And even at my love's bouer-door 
There grows a flowering birk ; 
And ye maun sit and sing thereon 
As she gangs to the kirk. 

" And four and twenty fair lad yes 
Will to the mass repair ; 
But weel may ye my ladye ken, 
The fairest ladye there." 

Lord William has written a love-let- 
ter, 
Put it under his pinion gray ; 
And he is awa to southern land 
As fast as wings can gae. 

And even at the ladye' s bouer 
There grew a flowering birk ; 
And he sat down and sung thereon 
As she gaed to the kirk. 

And weel he kent that ladye fair 

Amang her maidens free ; 

For the flower that springs in May 

morning 
Was not sae sweet as she. 

He lighted at the ladye's gate. 
And sat him on a pin ; 
And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love, 
Till a' was cosh within. 

And first he sang a low, low note. 
And syne he sang a clear; 
And aye the o'erword o' the sang 
Was — "Your love can no win 
here." — 



362 



PARNASSUS. 



" Feast on, feast on, my maidens a', 
The wine flows you arpang, 
While I gang to my shot- window, 
And hear yon bonny bird's sang. 

" Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, 
Tlie sang ye sung yestreen ; 
For weel I ken, by your sweet sing- 
ing, 
Ye are frae my true love sen." 

O first he sang a merry sang. 
And syne he sang a grave ; 
And syne lie picked his feathers gray, 
To her the letter gave. 

" Have there a letter from Lord Wil- 
liam; 
He says he's sent ye three ; 
He canna wait your love langer, 
But for your sake he'll die." — 

" Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, 

And brew liis bridal ale ; 

And I shall meet him at Mary's 

kirk, 
Lang, lang ere it be stale." 

The lady's gane to her chamber, 
And a moanfu' woman was she; 
As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash. 
And were about to die. 

"A boon, a boon, my father deir, 
A boon I beg of thee ! " — 
" Ask not that haughty Scottish lord, 
For him you ne'er shall see : 

"But, for your honest asking else, 
Weel granted it shall be." — 
"Then gin I die in Southern land. 
In Scotland gar bury me. 

" And the first kirk that ye come to, 
Ye's gar the mass be stmg; 
And the next kirk that ye come to, 
Ye's gar the bells be rung. 

" And when you come to St. Mary's 

kirk, 
Ye's tarry there till night." 
And so her father pledged his word. 
And so his promise plight. 

She has ta'en her to lier bigly bouer 
As fast as she could fare ; 
And she has drank a sleepy draught. 
That she had mixed wi' care. 



And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek, 
That was sae bright of blee. 
And she seemed to be as surely dead 
As any one could be. 

Then spake her cruel step-minnie, 
" Tak ye the burning lead. 
And drap a drap on her bosome. 
To try if slie be dead." 

They took a drap o' boiling lead, 
They drapped it on her breast ; 
" Alas ! alas ! " her fatlier cried, 
She's dead without the priest." 

She neither chattered with her teeth, 
Nor shivered with her chin ; 
" Alas ! alas ! " her father cried, 
" There is nae breath within." 

Tlien up arose her seven brethren. 
And hewed to her a bier ; 
They lie wed it frae the solid aik, 
Laid it o'er wi' silver clear. 

Then up and gat her seven sisters. 
And sewed to lier a keli ; 
And every stitch that they put in 
Sewed to a siller bell. 

The first Scots kirk that they cam to, 
They garr'd tlie bells be rung; 
The next Scots kirk that they cam to, 
They garr'd the mass be sung. 

But when they cam to St. Mary's 

kirk. 
There stude spearmen all in a raw ; 
And up and started Lord William, 
The chieftane amang them a'. 

"Set down, set down the bier," he 

said, 
" Let me look her vipon : " 
But as soon as Lord William touched 

her hand. 
Her colour began to come. 

She brightened like the lily flower. 
Till her pale colour was gone ; 
With rosy cheek, and ruby lip. 
She smiled her love uijon. 

" A morsel of your bread, my lord, 

And one glass of your wine ; 

For I hae fasted these three lang 

days. 
All for your sake and mine. — 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



563 



" Gae hame, gae liame, my seven 

bauhl brothers, 
Gae hame and blaw your horn ! 
I trow ye wad hae gi'en me the 

skaith, 
But I've gi'en you the scorn. 

" Commend me to my grey father, 
Tliat wished my saul gvide rest; 
But wae tij my cruel step-dame, 
Garr'd burn me on the breast." — 

" All ! woe to you, you light woman ! 
An ill death may ye die ! 
For we left father and sisters at hame 
Breaking their hearts for thee." 
Scott's Boeder Minstkelsy. 



ALLEN-A-DALE. 

Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for 
burning, 

AUen-a-Dale has no furrow for turn- 
ing, 

Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the 
spinning. 

Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the 
winning. 

Come, read me my riddle! come, 
hearken my tale ! 

And tell me the craft of bold Allen- 
a-Dale. 

The Baron of Raveusworth prances 

in pride, 
And he views his domains upon 

Arkindale side. 
The mere for his net, and the land 

for his game. 
The chase for the wild, and the park 

for the tame ; 
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer 

of the vale, 
Are less free to Lord Dacre than 

Allen-a-Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a 
knight. 

Though his spur be as sharp, and his 
blade be as bright ; 

Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at 
his word; 

And the I)est of our nobles his bon- 
net will vail, 

Wlio at Rere-cross on Stanmore 
meets Allen-a-Dale. 



Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 

The mother, she asked of his house- 
hold and home: 

" Though the castle of Richmond 
stand fair on the hill, 

My hall," (juoth bold Allen, "shows 
gallanter still; 

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with 
its crescent so pale. 

And with all its bright spangles!" 
said Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother 

was stone ; 
They lifted the latch, and they bade 

him be gone ; 
But loud, on the morrow, their wail 

and their cry : 
He had laughed on the lass Avith his 

bonny black eye, 
And she fled to the forest to hear a 

love-tale. 
And the youth it was told by was 

Allen-a-Dale ! 

Scott. 

GLENARA. 

O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad 

in the gale. 
Where a band cometh slowly with 

weeping and wail ? 
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments 

for his dear ; 
And her sire and her people are 

called to her bier. 

Glenara came first, with the mourn- 
ers and shroud ; 

Her kinsmen they followed, but 
mourned not aloud ; 

Their plaids alt their bosoms were 
folded around ; 

They marched all in silence, — they 
looked on the ground. 

In silence they reached, over moun- 
tain and moor, 

To a heath where the oak-tree grew 
lonely and hoar; 

" Now here let us place the gray 
stone of her cairn ; — 

Wliy speak ye no word ? " said Glen- 
ara the stern. 

" And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan 

of my spouse. 
Why fold ye your mantles, why 

cloud ye your brows ? " 



364 



PARNASSUS. 



So spake the rude chieftain ; no an- 
swer is made, 

But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger 
disi^layed. 

" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of 

her shroud," 
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all 

wrathful and loud ; 
"And empty that shroud and that 

coffin did seem ; 
Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my 

dream ! ' ' 

O, pale grew the cheek of that chief- 
tain, I ween. 

When the shroud was unclosed and 
no lady was seen ; 

Wlien a voice from the kinsmen 
spoke louder in scorn, — 

'Twas the youth who had loved the 
fair Ellen of Lorn, 

" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of 
her grief, 

I dreamt that her lord was a barbar- 
ous chief ; 

On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did 
seem; 

Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my 
dream!" 

In dust low the traitor has knelt to 

the ground, 
And the desert revealed where his 

lady was found ; 
From a rock of the ocean that beauty 

is borne ; 
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen 

of Lorn. 

Campbell. 



FITZ TRAVER'S SONG. 

'Twas All-soul's eve, and Surrey's 
heart beat high ; 
He heard the midnight bell with 
anxious start, 
Which told the mystic hour, ap- 
proaching nigh. 
When wise Cornelius promised, by 
his art, 
To show to him the ladye of his 
heart. 
Albeit betwixt them roared the 
ocean grim ; 



Yet so the sage had hight to play his 

part. 
That he should see her form in 

life and limb, 
And mark, if still she loved, and still 

she thought of him. 

Dark was the vaulted room of gram- 
arye, 
To which the wizard led the gal- 
lant knight. 
Save that before a mirror, huge and 
high, 
A hallowed taper shed a glimmer- 
ing light 
On mystic implements of magic 
might ; 
On cross, and character, and talis- 
man, 
And almagest, and altar, nothing 
bright : 
For fitful was the lustre, pale and 
wan. 
As watchlight by the bed of some 
departing man. 

But soon, within that mirror huge 
and high, 
Was seen a self-emitted light to 
gleam ; 
And forms upon its breast the earl 
'gan spy. 
Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish 
dream ; 
Till, slow arranging, and defined, 
they seem 
To form a lordly and a lofty room, 
Part lighted by a lamp with silver 
beam. 
Placed by a couch of Agra's silken 
loom. 
And part by moonshine pale, and 
part was hid in gloom. 

Fair all the pageant, — but how pass- 
ing fair 
The slender form which lay on 
couch of Ind ! 
O'er her white bosom strayed her 
hazel hair, 
Pale her dear cheek, as if for love 
she pined ; 
All in her night-robe loose she lay 
reclined. 
And, pensive, read from tablet 
eburnine, 
Some strain that seemed her inmost 
soul to find : — 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



365 



That favored strain was Surrey's 
raptured line, 
That fair and lovely foi'm, the Lady 
Geraldine. 

Slow rolled the clouds upon the 
lovely form, 
And swept the goodly vision all 
away ; — 
So royal envy rolled the murky storm 
O'er my beloved Master's glorious 
day. 
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! 
Heaven repay 
On thee, and on thy children's 
latest line, 
The wild caprice of thy despotic 
sway. 
The gory bridal bed, the plundered 
shrine, 
The murdered Surrey's blood, the 
tears of Greraldine ! 

Scott. 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
Tou thought to break a country 
heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
I know you proud to bear your 
name. 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 
Too proud to care from whence I 
came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet 
sake 
A heart that dotes on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find. 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
You put strange memories in my 
head. 
Not thrice your branching limes 
have blown 
Since I beheld young Laurence 
dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 
Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
When thus he met his mother's 
view. 
She had the passions of her kind, 
She spake some certain truths of 
you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 
Which stamps the caste of Vere 
de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 
You changed a wholesome heart 
to gall. 
You held your course without re- 
morse. 
To make him trust his modest 
worth, 
And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, 
And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 
From yon blue heavens above us 

bent. 
The gardener Adam and his wife 
Smile at the claims of long descent. 

Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
'Tis only noble to be good. 

Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
And simple faith than Norman 
blood. 

t know you, Clara Vere de Vere ; 
You pine among your halls and 
towers : 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless 
wealth, 
But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time. 
You needs must play such pranks 
as these. 



366 



PAKNASSUS. 



Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 

Tennyson. 



LADY GEKALDINE'S COURT- 
SHIP. 

A poet writes to his friend. — Place, 
a room in Wycombe Hall. — Time, 
late in the evening. 

Deak my friend and fellow-student, 
I would lean my spirit o'er you : 

Down the purple of this chamber, 
tears should scarcely run at 
will: 

I am humbled who was humble! 
Friend, — I bow my head be- 
fore you ! 

You should lead me to my peasants ! 
— but their faces are too still. 

There's a lady, — an earl's daughter ; 

she is proud and she is noble : 
And she treads the crimson carpet, 

and she breathes the perfumed 

air; 
And a kingly blood sends glances up 

her princely eye to trouble. 
And the shadow of a monarch's 

crown is softened in her hair. 

She has halls among the woodlands, 
she has castles by the breakers, 

She has farms and she has manors, 
she can threaten and com- 
mand, 

And the palpitating engines snort in 
steam across her acres, 

As they mark upon the blasted hea- 
ven the measurie of her land. 

There are none of England's daugh- 
ters who can show a prouder 
presence ; 

Upon princely suitors praying, she 
has looked in her disdain : 

She has sprung of English nobles, I 
was born of English peasants ; 

What was I that I should love her, — 
save for competence to pain ! 



I was only a poor poet, made for 

singing at her casement. 
As the finches or the thrushes, while 

she thought of other things. 
Oh, she walked so high above me, 

she appeared to my abasement, 
In her lovely silken murmur, like an 

angel clad in wings ! 

Many vassals bow before her as her 
carriage sweeps their door- 
ways; 

She has blest their little children, — 
as a priest or queen were she. 

Far too tender, or too cruel far, her 
smile upon the poor was, 

For I thought it was the same smile 
which she used to smile on me. 

She has voters in the commons, she 
has lovers in the palace, — 

And of all the fair court-ladies, few 
have jewels half as fine : 

Oft the prince has named her beau- 
ty, 'twixt the red wine and 
the chalice : 

Oh, and what was I to love her ? my 
Beloved, my Geraldine ! 

Yet I could not choose but love her, — 

I was born to poet uses, — 
To love all things set above me, all 

of good and all of fair : 
Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, 

we are wont to call the Muses, 
And in nympholeptic climbing, poets 

pass from mount to star. 

And because I was a poet, and be- 
cause the people praised me. 

With their critical deduction for the 
modern writer's fault; 

I could sit at rich men's tables, — 
though the courtesies that 
raised me. 

Still suggested clear between us the 
pale spectrum of the salt. 

And they praised me in her pres- 
ence: — "Will your book ap- 
pear this summer? " 

Then returning to each other, " Yes, 
our plans are for the moors ; " 

Then with whisper dropped behind 
me, — " There he is ! the latest 
comer ! 

Oh, she only likes his verses ! what 
is over, she endures. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



367 



" Quite low boni ! self-educated ! 

somewliat gifted though by 

nature, — 
And we make a point by asking him, 

of being very kind ; — • 
You may speak, he does not hear 

you ; and besides, he writes no 

satire, — 
All these serpents kept by charmers, 

leave their natural sting be- 
hind." 

I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I 

stood up there among them. 
Till, as frost intense will burn you, 

the cold scorning scorched my 

brow ; 
^Vlien a sudden silver speaking, 

gravely cadenced, overrung 

them, 
And a sudden silken stirring touched 

my inner nature through. 

I looked upward and beheld her! 

With a calm and regnant 

spirit. 
Slowly round she swept her eye- 
lids, and said clear before 

them all, 
" Have you such superfluous honor, 

sir, that able to confer it. 
You will come down, Mr. Bertram, 

as my guest to Wycombe 

Hall?" 

Here she paused, — she had been 
paler at the first word of her 
speaking ; 

But because a silence followed it, 
blushed somewhat as for 
shame ; 

Then, as scorning her own feeling, 
resumed calmly — "I am seek- 
ing 

More distinction than these gentle- 
men think worthy of my 
claim. 

" Nevertheless, you see, I seek it — 
not because I am a woman," 

\Here her smile sprang like a foun- 
tain, and, so overflowed her 
mouth,) 

" But because my woods in Sussex 
have some purple shades at 
gloaming 

Which are worthy of a king in state, 
or poet in his youth. 



" I invite you, Mr. Bertram, to no 

scene for worldly speeches, — 
Sir, I scarce should dare, — but only 

where God asked the thrushes 

first, — 
And if you will sing beside them, in 

the covert of my beeches, 
I will thank you foi' the woodlands, 

. . . for the human world at 

worst." 

Then she smiled around right child- 
ly, then she gazed around 
right queenly ; 

And I bowed, — I could not answer ! 
Alternate light and gloom, — 

Wliile as one who quells the lions, 
with a steady eye serenely. 

She, with level fronting eyeli'Us, 
passed out stately from the 
room. 

Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I 

can hear them still around me. 
With their leafy tide of greenery 

still rippling up the wind ! 
Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex! 

where the hunter's arrow 

found me. 
When a fair face and a tender voice 

had made me mad and blind ! 

In that ancient hall of Wycombe, 
thronged the numerous guests 
invited. 

And the lovely London ladies trod 
the floors with gliding feet ; 

And their voices low with fashion, 
not with feeling, softly freight- 
ed 

All the air about the windows, with 
elastic laughters sweet. 

For at eve, the open windows flung 

their light out on the terrace, 
Which the floating orbs of curtains 

did with gradual shadow 

sweep : 
While the swans upon the river, fed 

at morning by the heiress, 
Trembled downward through their 

snowy wings at music in their 

sleep. 

And there evermore was music, both 
of instrument and singing; 

Till the finches of the shrubberies 
grew restless in the dark ; 



368 



PARNASSUS. 



But the cedars stood up motionless, 
each in a moonUght ringing, 

And the deer, half in the glimmer, 
strewed the hollows of the 
park. 

And though sometimes she would 
bind me with her silver-cord- 
ed speeches, 

To commix my words and laughter 
with the converse and the jest, 

Oft I sat apart, and gazing on the 
river through the beeches. 

Heard, as pure the swans swam 
down it, her pure voice o'er- 
float the rest. 

In the morning, horn of huntsman, 
hoof of steed, and laugh of 
rider 

Spread out cheery from the court- 
yard till we lost them in the 
hills; 

Wliile herself and other ladies, and 
her suitors left beside her. 

Went a-wandering up the gardens 
through the laurels and abeles. 

Thus, her foot upon the new-mown 
gi-ass, — bareheaded. — with the 
flowing 

Of the virginal white vesture gath- 
ered closely to her throat ; 

With the golden ringlets in her neck 
just quickened by her going, 

And appearing to breathe sun for 
air, and doubting if to float, — 

With a branch of dewy maple, which 
her right hand held above her. 

And which trembled a green sha- 
dow in betwixt her and the 
skies. 

As she turned her face in going, 
thus, she drew me on to love 
her, 

And to worship the divineness of 
the smile hid in her eyes. 

For her eyes alone smile constantly : 
her lips have serious sweetness. 

And her front is calm, — the dimple 
rarely ripples on her cheek : 

But her deep blue eyes smile con- 
stantly, — as if they in discreet- 
ness 

Kept the secret of a happy dream 
she did not care to speak. 



Thus she drew me the first morning, 

out across into the garden : 
And I walked among her noble 

friends, and could not keep 

behind : 
Spake she unto all and unto me, — 

"Behold, I am the warden 
Of the song-birds in these lindens, 

which are cages to their mind. 

"But w^ithin this swarded circle, 
into which the lime-walk 
brings us, — 

Whence the beeches rounded green- 
ly, stand away in reverent 
fear ; 

I will let no music enter, saving 
what the fountain sings us. 

Which the lilies round the basin 
may seem pure enough to hear. 

"The live air that waves the lilies 
waves this slender jet of water. 

Like a holy thought sent feebly up 
from soul of fasting saint ! 

Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleep- 
ing! (Lough the sculptor 
wrought her, ) 

So asleep she is forgetting to say 
Hush ! — a fancy quaint ! 

" Mark how heavy white her eye- 
lids! not a dream between 
them lingers ! 

And the left hand's index droppeth 
from the lips upon tlie cheek: 

And the right hand, — with the sym- 
bol rose held slack within the 
fingers, — 

Has fallen back within the basin, — 
yet this Silence will not speak ! 

" That the essential meaning grow- 
ing may exceed the special 
symbol. 

Is the thought as I conceive it: it 
applies more high and low. 

Our true noblemen will often through 
right nobleness grow humble. 

And assert an inward honor by de- 
nying outward show." 

"Nay, your Silence," said I, "truly 
holds her symbol rose but 
slackly. 

Yet she holds it — or would scarcely 
be a Silence to our ken ! 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



369 



And your nobles wear their emiine 
on the outside, or walk blackly 

In the presence of the social law, as 
most ignoble men. 

" Let the poets dream such dream- 
ing! Madam, in these British 
Islands, 

'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 
'tis the symbol that exceeds ; 

Soon we shall have nought but sym- 
bol! and for statues like this 
Silence, 

Shall accept the rose's image, — in 
another case, the weed's." 

"Not so quickly!" she retorted, — 
" I confess where'er you go, you 

Find for things, names ; — shows for 
actions, and pure gold for 
honor clear ; 

But when all is run to symbol in the 
Social, I will throw you 

The world's book which now reads 
dryly, and sit -down with Si- 
lence here." 

Half in playfulness she spoke, I 
thought, and half in indigna- 
tion; 

Friends who listened laughed her 
words off while her lovers 
deemed her fair ; 

A fair woman — flushed with feeling, 
in her noble-lighted station 

Near the statue's white reposing, — 
and both bathed in sunny air! 

With the trees round, not so distant 

but you heard their vernal 

murmur, 
And beheld in light and shadow the 

leaves in and outward move ; 
And the little fountain leaping 

toward the sun-heart to be 

warmer, 
And recoiling in a tremble from the 

too much light above. 

'Tis a picture for remembrance! and 

thus, morning after morning. 
Did I follow as she drew me by the 

spirit to her feet, — 
Why, her greyhound followed also ! 

dogs — we both were dogs for 

scorning, — 
To be sent back when she pleased it, 

and her path lay through the 

wheat. 

24 



And thus, morning after morning, 
spite of vows and spite of sor- 
row, 

Did I follow at her drawing, while 
the week-days passed along ; 

Just to feed the swans this noontide, 
or to see the fawns to-morrow, 

Or to teach the hill-side echo some 
sweet Tuscan in a song. 

Ay, for sometimes on the hill-side, 

while we sat down in the 

gowans. 
With the forest green behind us, 

and its shadow cast before ; 
And the river running under; and 

across it from the rowans 
A brown partridge whirring near us, 

till we felt the air it bore, — 

There, obedient to her praying, did 
I read aloud the poems 

Made by Tuscan flutes, or instru- 
ments more various of our 
own; 

Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, — 
or the subtle interflowings 

Found in Petrarch's sonnets, — here's 
the book — the leaf is folded 
down ! — 

Or at times a modern volume, — 
Wordsworth's solemn- 
thoughted idyl, 

Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's, 
enchanted revery, — 

Or from Browning some "Pome- 
granate," which, if cut deep 
down the middle, 

Shows a heart within blood-tinc- 
tured, of a veined humanity. 

Or at times I read there, hoarsely, 
some new poem of my mak- 
ing, — 

Poets ever fail in reading their own 
verses to their worth, — 

For the echo in you breaks upon the 
words which you are speaking. 

And the chariot-wheels jar in the 
gate through which you drive 
them forth. 

After, when we were grown tired of 
books, the silence round us 
flinging 

A slow arm of sweet compression, 
felt with beatings at the breast. 



370 



PARNASSUS. 



She would break out on a sudden, 
in a gush of woodland singing, 

Like a child's emotion in a god, — a 
naiad tired of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing I scarce 
I know which is divlnest, — 

For her looks sing too, — she modu- 
lates her gestures on the tune ; 

And her mouth stirs with the oong, 
like song ; and when the notes 
are finest, 

'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal 
light, and seem to swell them 
on. 

Then we talked, — oh, how we talked ! 
her voice, so cadenced in the 
talking. 

Made another singing — of the soul ! 
a music without bars, — 

While the leafy sounds of wood- 
lands, humming round where 
we were walking. 

Brought interposition worthy sweet, 

— as skies about the stars. 

And she spake such good thoughts 

natural, as if she always 

thought them, — 
And had sympathies so rapid, open, 

free as bird on branch. 
Just as ready to fly east as west, 

whichever way besought them. 
In the birchen wood a chirrup, or a 

cock-crow in the grange. 

In her utmost Tightness there is truth, 

— and often she speaks lightly, 
Has a grace in being gay, which even 

mournful souls approve. 
For the root of some grave earnest 

thought is under-struck so 

rightly. 
As to justify the foliage and the 

waving flowers above. 

And she talked on, — we talked, rath- 
er ! upon all things • — sub- 
stance — shadow — 

Of the sheep that browsed the 
grasses, — of the reapers in the 
corn, — 

Of the little children from the 
schools, seen winding through 
the meadow, — 

Of the poor rich world beyond them, 
still kept poorer by its scorn. 



So of men, and so of letters, — books 

are men of higher stature, 
And the only men that speak aloud 

for future times to hear : 
So, of mankind in the abstract, which 

grows slowly into nature, 
Yet will lift the cry of " progress," as 

it trod from sphere to sphere. 

And her custom was to praise me 
when I said, — " The Age culls 
simples. 

With a broad clown's back turned 
broadly to the glory of the 
stars — 

We are gods by our own reck'ning, — 
and may well shut up the 
temples. 

And wield on, amid the incense- 
steam, the thunder of our cars. 

" For we throw out acclamations of 

self-thanking, self-admiring, 
With, at every mile run faster, — 

' O the wondrous, wondrous 

age!' 
Little thinking if we work our souls 

as nobly as our iron, 
Or if angels will commend us at the 

goal of pilgrimage. 

" Why, what is this patient entrance 
into nature's deep resources. 

But the child's most gradual learn- 
ing to walk upright without 
bane? 

When we drive out from the cloud 
of steam, majestical white 
horses. 

Are we greater than the first men 
who led black ones by the 
mane? 

"If we trod the deeps of ocean, if 
we struck the stars in rising, 

If we wrapped the globe intensely 
with one hot electric breath, 

'Twerebut power within our tether, — 
no new spirit-j)ower compris- 
ing. 

And in life we were not greater men, 
nor bolder men in death." 

She was patient with my talking; 

and I loved her, loved her 

certes, 
As I loved all Heavenly objects, 

with uplifted eyes and hands I 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



371 



As I loved pure inspirations, — loved 
the graces, loved the virtues, 

In a Love content with writing his 
own name on desert sands. 

Or at least I thought so purely! — 
thought no idiot Hope was 
raising 

Any crown to crown Love's silence, — 
silent Love that sat alone, — 

Out, alas ! the stag is like me, — he, 
that tries to go on grazing 

With the great deep gun-wound in 
liis neck, then reels with sud- 
den moan. 

It was thus I reeled ! I told you that 
her hand had many suitors — 

But she smiles them down imperial- 
ly, as Venus did the waves; — 

And with such a gracious coldness, 
that they cannot press their 
futures 

On the present of her courtesy, 
which yieldingly enslaves. 

And this morning, as I sat alone 

within the inner chamber. 
With the great saloon beyond it lost 

in pleasant thought serene, — 
For I had been reading Camoens — 

that poem you remember. 
Which his lady's eyes are praised in, 

as the sweetest ever seen; 

And the book lay open, and my 

thought flew from it, taking 

from it 
A vibration and impulsion to an end 

beyond its own. 
As the branch of a green osier, when 

a child would overcome it, 
Springs up freely from his clasping 

and goes swinging in the sun. 

As I mused I heard a murmur, — it 

grew deep as it grew longer — 
Speakers u.sing earnest language, — 

" Lady Geraldine, yomooidd! " 
And I heard a voice that pleaded 

ever on, in accents stronger, 
As a sense of reason gave it power 

to make its rhetoric good 

Well I knew that voice, — it was an 
earl's, of soul that matched 
his station — 

Soul completed into lordship, — might 
and right read on his brow : 



Very finely courteous, — far too proud 
to doubt his domination 

Of the common people, — he atones 
for grandeur by a bow. 

High, straight forehead, nose of 
eagle, cold blue eyes, of let^s 
expression 

Than resistance, coldly casting off 
the looks of other men. 

As steel, arrows, — unelastic lips, 
which seem to taste posses- 
sion. 

And be cautious lest the common 
air should injure or distrain. 

For the rest, accomplished, upright, — 

ay, and standing by his order 
With a bearing not ungraceful ; fond 

of art, and letters too ; 
Just a good man made a proud man, 

as the sandy rocks that border 
A wild coast, by circumstances, in a 

regnant ebb and flow. 

Thus I knew that voice, — I heard 
it — and I could not help the 
hearkening : 

In the room I stood up blindly, and 
my burning heart within 

Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses, 
till they ran on all sides dark- 
ening, 

And scorched, weighed like melted 
metal round my feet that stood 
therein. 

And that voice, I heard it pleading, 

for love's sake, — for wealth, 

position, 
For the sake of liberal uses, and 

great actions to be done, — 
And she interrupted gently, " Nay, 

my lord, the old tradition 
Of your Normans, by some worthier 

hand than mine is, should be 

won." 

"Ah, that white hand," he said 

quickly, — and in his he either 

drew it 
Or attempted — for with gravity and 

instance she replied, — 
"Nay, indeed, my lord, tliis talk is 

vain, and we had best eschew 

it. 
And pass on like friends, to other 

points less easy to decide." 



372 



PARNASSUS. 



What he said again, I know not. It 

is likely that his trouble 
Worked his pride up to the surface, 

for she answered in slow 

scorn, — 
"And your lordship judges rightly. 

Wliom I marry, shall be noble, 
Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush 

to think how he was born." 

There, I maddened ! her words stung 

me ! Life swept through me 

into fever, 
And my soul sprang up astonished ; 

sprang fuU-statured in an hour : 
Know you what it is when anguish, 

with apocalyptic never, 
To a Pythian height dilates you, — 

and despair sublimes to power ? 

From my brain the soul-wings bud- 
ded! — waved a flame about 
my body, 

Whence conventions coiled to ashes : 
I felt self-drawn out, as man, 

From amalgamate false natures ; and 
I saw the skies grow ruddy 

With tlie deepening feet of angels, 
and I knew wliat spirits can. 

I was mad, — inspired, — say either ! 

anguish worketh inspiration, — 
Was a man or beast — perhaps so ; for 

the tiger roars when speared ; 
And I walked on, step by step, along 

the level of my passion — 
Oh my soul ! and passed tlie doorway 

to her face, and never feared. 

He had left her, — peradventure, 

when my footstep proved my 

coming, — 
But for her, — she half arose, then sat 

— grew scarlet and grew pale : 
Oh she trembled! — 'tis so always 

with a worldly man or woman 
In tlie presence of true spirits, — what 

else ccm they do but quail*? 

Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in 
among its forest brothers 

Far too strong for it ! tlien drooping, 
bowed her face upon her 
hands, — 

And I spake out wildly, fiercely, bru- 
tal truths of her and others ! 

I, she planted in the desert, swathed 
her, windlike, with my sauds. 



I iDlucked up lier social fictions, 
bloody-rooted though leaf-ver- 
dant. 

Trod them down with words of 
shaming, — all the purple and 
the gold, 

All the "landed stakes" and lord- 
ships, — all that spirits pure 
and ardent 

Are cast out of love and honor be- 
cause chancing not to hold. 

"For myself I do not argue," said I, 

"though I love you, madam ; 
But for better souls that nearer to 

the height of yours have trod. 
And this age shows to my thinking, 

still more infidels to Adam, 
Than directly, by profession, simple 

infidels to God. 

" Yet, O God," I said, " O grave," I 

said, "O mother's heart and 

bosom. 
With whom first and last are equal, 

saint and corpse and little 

child ! 
We are fools to your deductions, in 

these figments of heart-clos- 

ing! 
We are traitors to your causes, in 

these sympathies defiled ! 

"Learn moi-e reverence, madam, not 

for I'ank or wealth, — that 

needs no learning ; 
That comes quickly — quick as sin 

does, ay, and culminates to 

sin; 
But for Adam's seed, man! Trust 

me, 'tis a clay above your 

scorning, 
With God's image stamped upon it, 

and God's kindling breath 

within, 

" Wliat right have you, madam, gaz- 
ing in your palace-mirror 
daily. 

Getting so by heart your beauty, 
which all others must adore, 

While you draw the golden ringlets 
down your fingers, to vow 

gayiy , , 

You will wed no man tliat's only 
good to God, — and nothing 
more ? 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



373 



"Why, what right have you, made 
fair by that same God, — the 
sweetest woman 

Of all women He has fashioned, — 
with your lovely spirit-face, 

Which would seem too near to van- 
ish if its smile were not so 
human. 

And your voice of holy sweetness, 
turning common words to 
grace, 

"What right can you have, God's 
other works to scorn, despise, 
revile them 

In the gross, as mere men, broadly, 
— not as noble men, for- 
sooth, — 

As mere Pariahs of the outer world, 
forbidden to assoil them 

In the hope of living, dying, near 
that sweetness of your mouth ? 

" Have you any answer, madam ? If 

my spirit were less earthly. 
If its instrument were gifted with a 

better silver string, 
I would kneel down where I stand, 

and say, — Behold me ! I am 

worthy 
Of thy loving, for I love thee ! I am 

worthy as a king. 

" As it is, — your ermined pride, I 
swear, shall feel this stain 
upon her, — 

That I, poor, weak, tost with pas- 
sion, scorned by me and you 
again. 

Love you, Madam, — dare to love 
you, — to my grief and your 
dishonor, — 

To my endless desolation, and your 
impotent disdain! " 

More mad words like these, — more 

madness ! friend, I need not 

write them fuller ; 
And I hear my hot soul dropping 

on the lines in showers of 

tears — 
Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! 

Why, a beast had scarce been 

duller 
Than roar bestial loud complaints 

against the shining of the 

spheres. 



But at last there came a pause. I 
stood all vibrating with thun- 
der 

Wliich my ' soul had used. The 
silence drew her face up like 
a call. 

Could you guess what word she 
uttered ? She looked up, as if 
in wonder. 

With tears beaded on her lashes, and 
said " Bertram ! " it was all. 

If she' had cursed me, — and she 
might have, — or if even, with 
queenly bearing 

Wliich at needs is used by women, 
she had risen up and said, 

" Sir, you are my guest, and therefore 
I have given you a full hear- 
ing, — 

Now, beseech you, choose a name 
exacting somewhat less in- 
stead," — 

I had borne it ! — but that "Bertram " 
— why it lies there on the 
paper, 

A mere word, without her accent, — 
and you cannot judge the 
weight 

Of the calm which crushed my pas- 
sion! I seemed drowning in 
a vapor, — 

And her gentleness destroyed me 
whom her scorn made deso- 
late. 

So, struck backward and exhausted 
by that inward flow of jjassion 

Which had rushed on, spaiing noth- 
ing, into forms of abstract 
truth. 

With a logic agonizing through un- 
seemly demonstration. 

And with youth's own anguish turn- 
ing grimly gray the hairs of 
youth, — 

By the sense accursed and instant, 

that if even I spake wisely, 
I spake basely, — using truth, — if 

what I spake indeed was 

true, — 
To avenge wrong on a woman, — her, 

who sat there weighing iiicely 
A full manhood's worth, found 

guilty of such deeds as I could 

do! — 



374 



PARNASSUS. 



With such wrong and woe exhausted 
— what I suffered and occa- 
sioned, — 

As a wild horse through a city runs 
with lightning in his eyes, 

And then dashing at a church' s cold 
and passive wall, impassioned, 

Strikes the death into his burning 
brain, and blindly drops and 
dies, — 

So I fell, struck down before her! 

Do you blame me frierfd, for 

weakness ? 
'Twas my strength of passion slew 

me! — fell before her like a 

stone ; 
Fast the dreadful world rolled from 

me, on its roailng wheels of 

blackness ! 
When the light came I was lying in 

this chamber — and alone. 

Oh, of course, she charged her lack- 
eys to bear out the sickly 
burden, 

And to cast it from her scornful 
sight, — but not beyond the 
gate — 

She was too kind to be cruel, and too 
haughty not to pardon 

Such a man as I, — 'twere something 
to be level to her hate. 

But for me, — you now are conscious 
why, my friend, I write this 
letter, 

How my life is read all backward, 
and the charm of life undone ! 

I shall leave her house at dawn ; — I 
would to-night, if I were bet- 
ter; — 

And I charge my soul to hold my 
body strengthened for the sun. 

Wlien the sun has dyed the oriel, I 

depart with no last gazes, 
No weak moanings — one word only 

left in writing for her hands, 
Out of reach of all derision, and some 

unavailing praises, 
To make front against this anguish 

in the far and foreign lands. 

Blame me not, I would not squander 
life in grief ; — I am abstemious : 

I but nurse my spirit's falcon, that 
its wings may soar again : 



There's no room for tears of weak- 
ness in the blind eyes of a 
Phemius : 

Into work the poet kneads them, — 
and he does not die till then. 

CONCLUSION. 

Bertram finished the last pages, 

while along the silence ever 
Still in hot and heavy splashes, fell 

the tears on every leaf : 
Having ended, he leans backward in 

his chair, with lips that quiver 
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep 

unwritten thoughts of grief. 

Soh! how still the lady standeth ! 'tis 
a dream! — a dream of mer- 
cies! 

'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains, 
how she standeth still and 
pale! 

'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent 
to soften his self-curses — 

Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er 
the tossing of his wail. 

"Eyes," he said, "now throbbing 
through me ! are ye eyes that 
did undo me ? 

Shining eyes, like antique jewels set 
in Parian statue-stone ! 

Underneath that calm white fore- 
head, are ye ever burning 
torrid 

O'er the desolate sand-desert of my 
heart and life undone? " 

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in 
the air, the pui-ple cuitain 

Swelleth in and swelleth out around 
her motionless pale brows ; 

While the gliding of the river sends 
a rippling noise forever 

Through the open casement whitened 
by the moonlight's slant re- 
pose. 

Said he — " Vision of a lady ! stand 
there silent, stand there steady : 

Now I see it plainly, plainly ; now I 
cannot hope or doubt — 

There, the brows of mild repression, 
— there, the lips of silent pas- 
sion, 

Curved like an archer's bow to send 
the bitter arrows out." 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



375 



Ever, evermore the while in a slow 

sili'iice .she kept sinihng. 
And approached liim slowly, .slowly, 

ill a gliding measured pace ; 
With her two white hand.s extended, 

as if praying one offended, 
And a look of supplication, gazing 

earnest in his face. 

Said he, — " Wake me by no gesture, 

— sound of breath, or stir of 
vesture ; 

Let the blessed apparition melt not 
yet to its divine ! 

No approaching, — hush ! no breath- 
ing ! or my heart must swoon 
to death in 

That too utter life thou bringest — 
O thou dream of Geraldine ! " 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow 

silence she kept smiling — 
But the tears ran over lightly from 

her eyes, and tenderly ; 
" Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me ? 

Is no woman far above me 
Found more worthy of thy poet-heart 

than such a one as J? " 

Said he — " I would dream so ever, 
like the flowing of that river. 

Flowing ever in a shadow greenly 
onward to the sea ; 

So, thou vision of all sweetness — 
princely to a full complete- 
ness, — 

Would my heart and life flow on- 
ward — deathward — through 
this dream of Thee ! " 

Ever, evermore the while in slow 

silence she kept smiling. 
While the silver tears ran faster down 

the blushing of her cheeks ; 
Then with both her hands enfolding 

both of his, she softly told him, 
" Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 

'tis the vision only speaks." 

Softened, quickened to adore her, on 

his knee he fell before her, — 

And she whispered low in triumph, 

— "It shall be as I have sworn ! 
Very rich he is in virtues, — very 

noble — noble, certes ; 
And I shall not blush in knowing 
that men call him lowly born ! " 
E. B. Bbowning, 



CENONE, OR THE CHOICE OF 
PARIS. 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I 

die. 
He smiled, and opening out his 

milk-white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of true Hesperian 

gold. 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I 

looked 
And listened, the full-flowing river 

of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-browed (Enoue, my own 

soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming 

rind ingraven 
" For the most fair," would seem to 

award it thine. 
As lovelier than whatever Oread 

haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of 

married brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I 

die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to 

mine. 
And added, ' This was cast upon the 

board. 
When all the full-faced presence of 

the Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus; 

whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 

'twere due: 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester- 

eve. 
Delivering, that to me, by common 

voice, 
Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within 

the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 

pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, 

unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of 

Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I 
die. 
It was the deep midnoou : one silvery 
cloud 



376 



PARNASSUS. 



Had lost his way between the piuey 

sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the 

bower they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth- 
swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake 

like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel. 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, 
And overhead the wandering ivy 

and vine. 
This way and that, in many a wild 

festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled 

boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower 

through and through. 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flowed a golden cloud, 

and leaned 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 

dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, 

to whom 
Coming through Heaven, like a light 

that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind 

the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 

made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestioned, overflowing revenue 
Wlierewith to embellish state, ' from 

many a vale 
And river-sundered champaign 

clothed with corn. 
Or labored mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax 

and toll. 
From many an inland town and 

haven large. 
Mast-thronged beneath her shadow- 
ing citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest 

towers.' 

" O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

Still she spake on and still she spake 
of power, 

' Which in all action is the end of all ; 

Power fitted to the season ; wisdom- 
bred 

And throned of wisdom — from all 
neighbor crowns 

Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 



Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such 
boon from me. 

From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, 
to thee king-born, 

A shepherd all thy life, but yet king- 
born. 

Should come most welcome, seeing 
men, in power. 

Only, are likest gods, who have at- 
tained 

Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying 
bliss 

In knowledge of their own suprem- 
acy.' 

' ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

She ceased, and Paris held the costly 
fruit 

Out at arm's-length, so much the 
thought of power 

Flattered his spirit ; but Pallas where 
she stood 

Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 
limbs 

O'erthwarted with the brazen- 
headed spear 

Upon her pearly shoulder leaning 
cold. 

The while, above, her full and ear- 
nest eye 

Over her snow-cold breast and angry 
cheek 

Kept watch, waiting decision, made 
reply. 

" ' Self -reverence, self-knowledge, 
self-control. 

These three alone lead life to sover- 
eign power. 

Yet not for power (power of herself 

Would come uncalled for), but to 
live by law. 

Acting the law we live by without 
fear; 

And, because right is right, to follow 
right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- 
quence.' 

" Dear mother Ida, harken ere I 

die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not 

with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what 

I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



377 



Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge 

of fair, 
Unbiased by self-profit, oh! rest 

thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave 

to thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy 

blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward through a life 

of shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance 

grow 
Sinewed with action, and the full- 
grown will, , 
Circled through all experiences, pure 

law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased. 
And Paris pondered, and I cried, ' O 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me 

not. 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe 

is me! 

" O mother Ida, many-fountained 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, liarken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful. 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in 

Paphian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward 

drew 
From her warm brows and bosom 

her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid 

throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her 

light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her 

rounded form 
Between the shadows of the vine- 
bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as 

she moved. 

"Dear mother Ida, barken ere I 

die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild 

eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing 

nigh 
Half-whispered in his ear, ' I promise 

thee 



The fairest and most loving wife in 

Greece,' 
She spoke and laughed : I shut my 

sight for fear : 
But when I looked, Paris had raised 

his arm. 
And I beheld great Here's angry 

eyes. 
As she withdrew into the golden 

cloud. 
And I was left alone within the 

bower. 
And from that time to this I am 

alone. 
And I shall be alone until I die." 



Tennyson. 



THE ISLAND. 

How pleasant were the songs of 

Toobonai, 
Wlien summer's sun went down the 

coral bay ! 
Come let us to the islet's softest 

shade, 
And hear the warbling birds I the 

damsels said : 
The wood-dove from the forest 

depth shall coo. 
Like voices of the gods from Bolo- 

too; 
We'll cull the flowers that grow 

above the dead. 
For these most bloom where restr 

the warrior's head ; 
And we will sit in twilight's face, 

and see 
The sweet moon dancing through 

the tooa-tree, 
The lofty accents of whose sighing 

bough 
Shall sadly please us as we lean be- 
low; 
Or climb the steep, and view the 

surf in vain 
Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the 

main, 
Which spurn in columns back the 

baffled spray. 
How beautiful are these, how happy 

they, 
Wlio, from the toil and tumvdt of 

their lives, 
Steal to look down where nought 

but ocean strives ! 



378 



PARNASSUS. 



Even he too loves at times the bhie 
lagoon, 

And smooths his ruffled mane be- 
neath the moon. 

Yes — from the sepulchre we'll gath- 
er flowers. 

Then feast like spirits in their 
promised bowers, 

Then plunge and revel in the rolling 
surf, 

Then lay our limbs along the tender 
tui'f, 

And wet and shining from the spor- 
tive toil. 

Anoint our bodies with the fragrant 
oil. 

And plait our garlands gathered 
from the grave, 

And wear the wreaths that sprung 
from out the brave. 

But lo! night comes, the Mooa 
wooes us back. 

The sound of mats is heard along 
our track ; 

Anon the torchlight-dance shall fling 
its sheen 

In flashings mazes o'er the Marly' s 
green ; 

And we too will be there ; we too re- 
call 

The memory bright with many a 
festival. 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when 
foes 

For the first time were wafted in 
canoes. 

Strike up the dance, the cava bowl 
fill high. 

Drain every drop! — to-morrow we 
may die. 

In summer garments be our limbs 
arrayed ; 

Around our waist the Tappa's white 
displayed ; 

Thick wreaths shall form our coro- 
nal, like spring's, 

And round our necks shall glance 
the Hooni strings ; 

So shall their brighter hues contrast 
the glow 

Of the dusk bosoms that beat high 
below. 

Thus rose a song, — the harmony of 

times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er 

these climes. 



True, they had vices, — such are 

nature's growth, — 
But only the barbarians' — we have 

both ; 
The sordor of civilization, mixed 
With all the savage which man's fall 

hath fixed. 
Who hath not seen dissimulation's 

reign. 
The prayers of Abel linked to deeds 

of Cain ? 
Who such would see, may from his 

lattice view 
The old world more degraded than 

the new, — 
Now neiv no more, save where 

Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by freedom to 

her spheres. 
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, 

wave, 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees 

no slave. 

Byeon. 

THE SEA-CAVE. 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, 

and he 
Followed: her track beneath her 

native sea 
Was as a native's of the element. 
So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she 

went. 
Leaving a streak of light behind her 

heel. 
Which struck and flashed like an 

amphibious steel. 
Closely, and scarcely less expert to 

trace 
The depths where divers hold the 

pearl in chase, 
Torquil, the nursling of the North- 
ern seas. 
Pursued her liquid steps with art 

and ease. 
Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha 

led 
The way — then upward soared — 

and, as she spread 
Her arms, and flung the foam from 

off her locks. 
Laughed, and the sound was an- 
swered by the rocks. 
They had gained a central realm of 

earth again. 
But looked for tree, and field, and 

sky, in vain. 



J 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



379 



Around she pointed to a spacious 
cave, 

Whose only portal was the keyless 
wave, 

(A hollow archway by the sun un- 
seen, 

Save through the billows' glassy 
veil of green, 

In some transparent ocean holiday, 

When ffll the finny jieople are at 
play), 

Wiped with her hair the brine from 
Torquil's eyes, 

And clapped her hands with joy at 
his surprise. 

Forth from her bosom the young 
savage drew 

A pine torch, strongly girded with 
gnatoo ; 

A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to 
keep 

Its latent sparkle from the sapping 
deep. 

This mantle kept it dry ; then from 
a nook 

Of the same plantain leaf, a flint 
she took, 

A few shrunk withered twigs, and 
from the blade 

Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and 
thus arrayed 

The grot with torchlight. Wide it 
was and high. 

And showed a self-born Gothic can- 
opy; 

The arch upreared by Nature's archi- 
tect. 

The architrave some earthquake 
might erect ; 

The buttress from some mountain's 
bosom hurled. 

When the poles crashed and water 
was the world ; 

There, with a little tinge of phan- 
tasy, 

Fantastic faces moped and mowed 
on high. 

And then a mitre or a shrine would 
fix 

The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 

Then Nature played with the sta- 
lactites, 

And built herself a chapel of the seas. 

And Neuha took her Torquil by the 
hand, 

And waved along the vault her kin- 
dled brand. 



And led him into each recess, and 

showed 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been 

prepared 
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she 

shared ; 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh 

gnatoo, 
The sandal-oil to fence against the 

dew ; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, 

the bread 
Born of the fruit; for board the 

plantain spread 
With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell 

which bore 
A banquet in the flesh if covered o'er ; 
The gourd with water recent from 

the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow 

hill; 
A pine torch pile to keep undying 

light ; 
And she herself as beautiful as night, 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the 

scene, 
And make their subterranean world 

serene. 
She had foreseen, since first the 

stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or 

flight might fail. 
And fomied a refuge of the rocky 

den 
For Torquil's safety from his coun- 
trymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her 

light canoe, 
Laden with all the golden fruits that 

grew; 
Each eve had seen her gliding 

through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their 

sparry bower ; 
And now she spread her little store 

with smiles. 
The happiest daughter of the loving 

isles. 

'Twas morn; and Neuha, who by 

dawn of day 
Swam smoothly forth to catch the 

rising ray. 
And watchif aught approached the 

amphibious lair 
Where lay her lover, saw a sail in 

air; 



880 



PARNASSUS. 



It flapped, it filled, then to the grow- 
ing gale 

Bent its broad arch : her breath be- 
gan to fail 

With fluttering fear, her heart beat 
thick and high. 

While yet a doubt sprung where its 
course might lie : 

But no! it came not; fast and far 
away, 

The shadow lessened as it cleared 
the bay. 

She gazed, and flung the sea-foam 
from her eyes. 

To watch as for a rainbow in the 
skies. 

On the horizon verged the distant 
deck, 

Diminished, dwindled to a very 
speck — 

Then vanished. All was ocean, all 



was ]oy 



Bybon. 



SONG OF THE TONGA-ISLAND- 
ERS. 

Come to Licoo ! the sun is riding 
Down hills of gold to his coral 

bowers ; 
Come where the wood-pigeon's moan 

is chiding 
The song of the wind, while we 

gather flowers. 

Let us plait the garland, and weave 

the chi, 
Wliile the wild waves dance on our 

iron strand ; 
To-morrow these waves may wash 

our graves, 
And the moon look down on a ruined 

land. 

Let us light the torches, and dip our 

hair 
In the fragrant oil of the sandal-tree ; 
Strike the bon joo, and the oola share, 
Ere the death-gods hear our jubilee. 

Who are they that in floating towers 

Come with their skins of curdled 
snows ? 

They shall see our maidens dress our 
bowers. 

While the hooni shines on their sun- 
ny brows. 



Wlio shall mourn when red with 
slaughter, 

Finow sits on the funeral stone ? 

Who shall weep for his dying daugh- 
ter? 

Who shall answer the red chief's 
moan? 

He shall cry unheard by th§ funeral 

stone, 
He shall sink unseen by the split 

canoe. 
Though the plantain-bird be his 

alone. 
And the thundering gods of Fanfon- 

noo. 

Let us not think 'tis but an hour 
Ere the wreath shall drop from the 

warrior's waist; 
Let us not think 'tis but an hour 
We have on our perfumed mats to 

waste. 

Shall we not banquet, though Ton- 
ga's king 

To-morrow may hurl the battle- 
spear ? 

Let us whirl our torches, and tread 
the ring, — 

He only shall find our foot-prints 
here. 

We will dive, — and the turtle's track 

shall guide 
Our way to the cave where Hoonga 

dwells, 
Wliere under the tide he hides his 

bride. 
And lives by the light of its starry 

shells. 

Come to Licoo ! in yellow skies 
The sun shines bright, and the wild 

waves play ; 
To-morrow for us may never rise ; — 
Come to Licoo, to-day, to-day. 

Anonymous. 



AMY WENTWORTH. 

Her fingers shame the ivory keys 
They dance so light along; 

The bloom upon her parted lips 
Is sweeter than the song. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



381 



perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles ! 

Her thoughts are not of thee : 
She better loves the salted wind, 

The voices of the sea. 

Her heart is like an outbound ship 
That at its anchor swings ; 

The nuirmur of the stranded shell 
Is in the song she sings. 

She sings, and, smiling, hears her 
praise, 
But dreams the while of one 
Who watches from his sea-blown 
deck 
The icebergs in the sun. 

She questions all the winds that blow, 
And every fog-wreath dim. 

And bids the sea-birds flying north 
Bear messages to him. 

She speeds them with the thanks of 
men 

He perilled life to save. 
And grateful prayers like holy oil 

To smooth for him the wave. 

Brown Viking of the fishing-smack ! 

Fair toast of all the town ! — 
The skipper's jerkin ill beseems 

The lady's silken gown! 

But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth 
wear 

For him the blush of shame 
Who dares to set his manly gifts 

Against her ancient name. 

The stream is brightest at its spring, 
And blood is not like wine; 

Nor honored less than he who heirs 
Is he who founds a line. 

Full lightly shall the prize be won, 
If love be Fortune's spur; 

And never maiden stoops to him 
Who lifts himself to her. 

Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, 
With stately stairways worn 

By feet of old Colonial knights 
And ladies gentle-born. 

Still green about its ample porch 

The English ivy twines, 
Trained back to show in English oak 

The herald's carven signs. 



And on her, from the wainscot old, 

Ancestral faces frown, — 
And this has worn the soldier's 
sword, 

And that the judge's gown. 

But, strong of will and proud as they, 
She walks the gallery-floor 

As if she trod her sailor's deck 
By stoi'my Labrador ! 

The sweet-brier blooms on Kittery- 
side, 

And green are Elliot's bowers ; 
Her garden is the pebbled beach, 

The mosses are her flowers. 

She looks across the harbor-bar 
To see the white gulls fly ; 

His greeting from the Northern sea 
Is in their clanging cry. 

She hums a song, and dreams that he, 

As in its romance old. 
Shall homeward ride with silken 
sails 

And masts of beaten gold ! 

O, rank is good, and gold is fair. 
And high and low mate ill ; 

But love has never known a law 
Beyond its own sweet will ! 

Whittiek. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow. 
And clouds are highest up in air. 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin. Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betrothed were they : 

They two will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the day! 

*' He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, "Who was this that went 
from thee?" 
" It was my cousin," said Lady 
Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 



382 



PARNASSUS. 



" O God be thanked ! " said Alice the 

nurse, 

" That all comes round so just and 

fair: 

Lord Konald is heir of all your lands, 

And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind, my 
nurse, my nurse?" 
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak 
so wild?" 
"As God's above," said Alice the 
nurse, 
"I speak the truth: you are my 
child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my 
breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
O mother," she said, " if this be 
true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice 
the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life. 
And all you have will be Lord Ron- 
ald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the broocb of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace 
by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the 
nurse, 

" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said, " Not so: but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice 
the nurse, 
"The man will cleave unto his 
right." 
"And he shall have it," the lady re- 
plied, 
" Though I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother 
dear ! 
Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." 



"O mother, mother, mother," she 
said, 
" So strange it seems to me. 

' 'Yet here' s a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so. 

And lay your hand upon my head. 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown. 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by 
down. 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And followed her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his 
tower : 
"O Lady Clare, you shame your 
worth ! 
Wliy come you drest like a village 
maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are : 

I am a beggar born," she said, 
" And not the Lady Clare." 

"Play me no tricks," said Lord 
Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in 
deed. 
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail ; 
She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn: 
He turned and kissed her where 
she stood : 
" If you are not the heiress born. 
And I," said he, "the next in 
blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
Aiid I," said he, "the lawful heir. 

We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 
Tennyson. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



383 



AULD ROBIX GRAY. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and 

he sought me for his bride, 
But saving a crown he had naething 

else beside; 
To make that crown a pound, my 

Jamie gaed to sea, 
And the crown and the pound were 

bai t h for me. 
lie had na been awa a week but only 

twa, 
^Vlien my mither she fell sick, and 

the cow was stown awa, 
My father brak his arm, and my 

Jamie at the sea. 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-court- 

ing to me. 

My father cou'dna work, and my 

mither cou'dna spin ; 
I toiled baith day and night, but 

their bread I cou'dna win; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, 

and wi' tears in his ee 
Said, Jenny, for their sakes, oh, will 

you marry me ? 
My heart it said nay ; I looked for 

Jamie back ; 
But the wind it blew high, and the 

ship it proved a wrack , 
The ship it proved a wrack, — why 

didna Jenny dee? 
And why do I live to say, Oh, waes 

me! 

Auld Robin argued sair, though my 

mither didna speak, 
She looked in my face till my heart 

was like to break; 
So they gied him my hand, though 

my heart was at the sea, 
And auld Robin Gray is a gudeman 

to me. 
I hadna been a wife a week but only 

four, 
Wlien sitting sae mournfully ae day 

at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'd- 
na think it he. 
Until he said, Jenny, I'm come to 

marry thee. 

Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle 
did we say, 

We took but ae kiss, and tore our- 
selves away : 



I wish I were dead, but I'm nae like 

to dee ; 
And why do I live to say, Oh, waes 

me! 
I gang like a ghaist, I carena to 

spin, 
I darena think on Jamie, for that 

wad be a sin ; 
But I'll do my best a gude wife for to 

be. 
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto 

me. 

Lady Anne Lindsay. 



WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE 
BONNY. 

O, Waly, waly up the bank, 
And waly, waly down the brae, 
And waly, waly yon burn-side, 
Where I and my love wont to gae. 

I leaned my back unto an aik, 
I thought it was a trusty tree ; 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak, — 
Sae my true love did light by me ! 

O, waly, waly, but love be bonny, 
A little time while it is new ; 
But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld, 
And fades away like the morning 
dew. 

O, wherefore should I busk my head ? 
Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 
For my true love has me forsook. 
And says he'll never love me mair. 

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ; 
The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by 

me; 
St. Anton's well shall be my drink. 
Since my true love has forsaken me. 

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou 

blaw, 
And shake the green leaves off the 

tree ? 
O gentle death, when wilt thou come ? 
For of my life I'm weary. 

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 
Nor blawing thaw's inclemency; 
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 
But my love's heart grown cauld to 
me. 



584 



PARNASSUS. 



When we came in by Glasgow town. 
We were a comely sight to see ; 
My love was clad in the black vel- 
vet, 
And I mysel in cramasie. 

But had I wist before I kissed, 
That love had been sae ill to win, 
I'd locked my heart in a case of 

gold, 
And pinned it with a silver pin. 

O, O, if my young babe were born, 
And set upon the nurse's knee. 
And I mysel were dead and gane 
And the green grass growin' ower 
me! 

Anonymous. 



FAIR ANNIE. 

"It's narrow, narrow, make your 

bed. 
And learn to lie your lane ; 
i or I'm gaun o'er the sea, Fair Annie, 
A braw bride to bring hame. 
Wi' her I will get gowd and gear ; 
Wi' you I ne'er got nane. 

" But wha will bake my bridal bread. 

Or brew my bridal ale ? 

And wha will welcome my brisk 

bride. 
That I bring o'er the dale ? " — 

" It's I will bake your bridal bread. 
And brew your bridal ale ; 
And I will welcome your brisk bride. 
That you bring o'er the dale." — 

" But she that welcomes my brisk 

bride 
Maun gang like maiden fair ; 
She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, 
And braid her yellow hair." — 

" But how can I gang maiden-like, 
When maiden I am nane ? 
Have I not born seven sons to thee. 
And am with child again ? " — 

She's ta'en her young son in her 

arms. 
Another in her hand ; 
And she's up to the highest tower, 
To see him come to land. 



" Come up, come up, my eldest son, 

And look o'er yon sea-strand. 

And see your father's new-come 

bride. 
Before she come to land." — 

" Come down, come down, my 

mother dear. 
Come frae the castle wa' ! 
I fear, if langer ye stand there, 
Ye' 11 let yoursell down fa'." — 

And she gaed ' down, and farther 

down. 
Her love's ship for to see ; 
And the topmast and the mainmast 
Shone like the silver free. 

And she's gane down, and farther 

down. 
The bride's ship to behold; 
And the topmast and the mainmast 
They shone just like the gold. 

She's ta'en her seven sons in her 

hand ; 
I wot she did'na fail ! 
She met Lord Thomas and his bride, 
As they came o'er the dale. 

" You're welcome to your house. 

Lord Thomas ; 
Yovi're welcome to your land; 
You're welcome, with your fair 

ladye, 
That you lead by the hand. 

" You're welcome to your ha's ladye, 
You're welcome to your bowers; 
You're welcome to your hame, ladye, 
For a' that's here is yours." — 

" I thank thee, Annie ; I thank thee, 

Annie ; 
Sae dearly as I thank thee ; 
You're the likest to my sister Annie, 
That ever I did see. 

" There came a knight out o'er the 

sea, 
And stealed my sister away ; 
The shame scoup in his company 
And land where'er he gae ! " — 

She hang ae napkin at the door, 
Another in the ha' ; 
And a' to wipe the trickling tears, 
Sae fast as they did fa'. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



385 



And aye she served the lang tables 
With white bread and with wine; 
And aye she dranlc the wan water, 
To hand her colour fine. 

And aye she served the lang tables, 
With white bread and with brown ; 
And ay she turned her round about, 
Sae fast the tears fell down. 

And he's ta'en down the silk napkin, 
Ilung on a silver pin ; 
And aye he wipes the tear trickling 
Adown her cheek and chin. 

And aye he turned him round about. 
And smiled amang his men, 
Says-^ " Like ye best the old ladye. 
Or her tliat's new come hame ? " — 

When bells were rung, and mass was 

sung, 
And a' men bound to bed, 
Lord Thomas and his new-come bride, 
To their chamber they were gaed. 

Annie made her bed a little forbye, 
To hear what they might say ; 
" And ever alas ! " fair Annie cried, 
" That I should see this day ! 

" Gin my seven sons were seven 

young rats, 
Running on tlie castle wa', 
And I were a grey cat mysell, 
I soon would worry them a'. 

" Gin my seven sons were seven 

young hares. 
Running o'er yon lilly lee. 
And I were a grew hound mysell. 
Soon worried they a' should be." — 

And wae and sad fair Annie sat, 
And drearie was her sang ; 
And ever, as she sobbed and grat, 
" Wae to tlie man that did the 
wrang! " — 

" My gown is on," said the new-come 

bride, 
" My shoes are on my feet. 
And I will to fair Annie's chamber, 
And see what gars her greet. 

"What ails ye, what ails ye, Fair 

Annie, 
That ye make sic a moan ? 
25 



Has your wine barrells cast the girds, 
Or is your white bread gone? 

"O wha was't was your father, Annie, 
Or wha was't was your mother? 
And had you ony sister, Annie, 
Or had you ony brother?" — 

" The Earl of Wemyss was my father, 
The Countess of Wemyss my mother ; 
And a' the folk about the house, 
To me were sistet and brother," — 

" If the Earl of Wemyss was your 

father, 
I wot sae was he mine ; 
And it sliall not be for lack o'gowd, 
That ye your love sail tyne. 

" Come to your bed, my sister dear. 
It ne'er was wranged for me. 
But an ae kiss of his merry mouth, 
As we cam owre the sea." 

" Awa, awa, ye forenoon bride, 
Awa, awa f rae me : 
I wudua hear my Annie greet. 
For a' the gold I got wi' thee." 

"01 have seven ships o' mine ain, 

A' loaded to tlie brim ; 

And I will gie them a' to thee, 

Wi' four to thine eldest son, 

But thanks to a' the powers in heaven 

That I gae maiden hame ! " 

Scott's Veksiok. 



GRISELDA. 

THE CLERKES TALE. 

Ther is right at the West side of 
Itaille 

Doun at the rote of Vesulus the cold, 

A lusty plain, abundant of vitaille, 

Ther many a toun and tour tliou 
maist behold, 

That founded were in time of fa- 
thers old. 

And many another delitable sighte. 

And Saluces this noble contree 
highte. 

A markis whilom lord was of that 
land, 
As were his worthy elders him before, 
And obeysant, ay redy to his hand. 



386 



PARNASSUS. 



Were all his lieges, botlie lesse and 
more : 

Thus in delit he liveth, and hath 
done yore, 

Beloved and drad, thurgh favour of 
fortvme, 

Both of his lordes, and of his com- 
mune. 

Therwith he was, to speken of 

linage, 
The gentilest yborne of Lombardie, 
A faire person, and strong, and yong 

of age, 
And ful of honour and of curtesie : 
Discret ynough, his contree for to gie. 
Save in som thinges that he vpas to 

blame, 
And Walter was this yonge lordes 

name. 

I blame him thus, that he consid- 
ered nought 

In time coming what might him be- 
tide. 

But on his lust present was all his 
thought. 

And for to hauke and hunt on every 
side : 

Wei neigh all other cures let he slide. 

And eke he n'old (and that was 
worst of all) 

Wedden no wif for ought that might 
befall. 

Only that point his peple bare so sore, 

That flockmel on a day to him they 
went. 

And one of them, that wisest was of 
lore, 

(Or elles that the lord wold best as- 
sent 

That he shuld tell him what the 
peple ment. 

Or elles coud he wel shew suich 
matere) 

He to the markis said as ye shall here. 

" O noble markis, your humanitee 
Assureth us andyeveth us hardinesse, 
As oft as time is of necessitee. 
That we to you may tell our hevi- 

nesse : 
Accepteth, lord, then of your gen- 

tillesse. 
That we with pitous herte unto you 

plaine. 
And let your ere's not my vols dis- 

daine. 



Al have I not to don in this mat- 
ere 
More than another man hath in this 

place, 
Yet for as moch as ye, my lord so 

dere 
Han alway shewed me favour and 

grace, 
I dare the better aske of you a space 
Of audience, to shewen our request. 
And ye, my lord, to don right as you 
lest. 

For certes, lord, so wel us liketh you 
And all your werke, and ever have 

don, that we 
Ne couden not ourself devisen how 
We mighten live in more felicitee : 
Save one thing, lord, if it your willd 

be. 
That for to be a wedded man you lest, 
Then were your peple in soverain 

hertes rest. 

Boweth your nekke under the 

blisful yok 
Of soveraintee, and not of servise, 
Which that men clepen spousalile or 

wedlok : 
And thinketh, I6rd, among your 

thoughtes wise. 
How that our dayes passe in sondry 

wise; 
For though we slepe, or wake, or 

rome, or ride, 
Ay fleth the time, it wol no man 

abide. 

And though your grene youthe 

floure as yet. 
In crepeth age alway as still as stone, 
And deth menaceth every age, and 

smit 
In eche estat, for ther escapeth none : 
And al so certain, as we knowe eche 

one 
That we shul die, as uncertain we 

all 
Ben of that day whan deth shal on 

us fall. 

Accepteth then of us the trewe 
entent. 
That never yet refusdden your best, 
And we wol, lord, if that ye wol as- 
sent, 
Chese you a wife in short time at the 
mest, 



I 



NARRATIVE POEMy AND BALLADS. 



387 



Borne of the gentillest and of the 

best 
Of all this lond, so that it oughte 

seme 
Honour to God and you, as we can 

deme. 

Deliver us out of all this besy 

drede, 
And take a wif, for highe Goddes 

sake: 
For if it so befell, as God forbede, 
That thurgh your deth your linage 

shulde slake, 
And that a strange successour shuld 

take 
Tour heritage, o! wo were us on 

live : 
AVherfore we pray you hastily to 

wive." 

Hir meke praiere and hir pitous 

chere 
Made the markis for to han pitee. 
"Ye wol," quod he, "min owen 

peple dere. 
To that I never ere thought con- 

strainen me. 
I me rejoyced of my libertee, 
That selden time is found in mar- 

iage: 
Ther I was free, I moste ben in ser- 

vage. 

"But natheles I see your trewe 
entent. 

And trust upon your wit, and have 
don ay : 

Wherfore of my free will I wol as- 
sent 

To wedden me, as sone as ever I 
may. 

But ther as ye han profred me to- 
day 

To chesen me a wife, I you relese 

That chois, and pray you of that 
profer cese. 

" For God it wot, that children of- 
ten ben 

Unlike hir worthy eldres them be- 
fore, 

Bountee cometh al of God, not of 
the stren, 

Of which they ben ygendred and 
ybore : 

I trust in Goddes boiuitee, and ther- 
fore 



My mariage, and min estat, and 

rest 
I him betake, he may do as him 

lest. 

"Let me alone in chosing of my 

wife, 
That charge upon my bak I wol en- 
dure: 
But I you pray, and charge upon 

your life. 
That what wif that I take, ye me 

assure 
To worship her while that her life 

may dure. 
In word and work both here and 

elles where. 
As she an emperoures daughter 

were. 

" And forthermore this shuin ye 

swere, that ye 
Again my chois shal never grutch ne 

strive. 
For sith I shal forgo my libertee 
At your request, as ever mote I 

thrive. 
Where as min herte is set, ther wol 

I wive : 
And but ye wol assent in such man- 

ere, 
I pray you speke no more of this 

matere." 

With hertly will they sworen and 

assenten 
To all this thing, ther saide not one 

wight nay. 
Beseching him of grace, or that 

they wenten. 
That he wold granten them a cer- 
tain day 
Of his spousaile, as soon as ever he 

may. 
For yet alway the peple somwhat 

dred. 
Lest that this markis wolde no wif 

wed. 

He granted hem a day, such as 
him lest, 

On which he wold be wedded sikerly. 

And said he did all this at hir re- 
quest. 

And they with humble herte ful 
buxumly 

Kneliug upon their knees ful rever- 
ently 



388 



PARNASSUS. 



Him thanked all, and thus they had 

an end 
Of their entente, and home agen they 

wend. 

And hereupon he to his ofBceres 
Commandeth for the f este to purvay. 
And to his privee knightes and 

squieres 
tiuch charge he gave, as him list on 

them lay : 
And they to his commandement obey, 
And eche of them doth all his dili- 
gence 
To do unto the feste all reverence. 

PAJKS SECUNDA. 

Nought far fro thilke paleis hon- 
ourable, 
Wher as this markis shope his mar- 

iage, 
Ther stood a thorpe, of sighte delita- 

ble, 
In which that poure folk of that 

village 
Hadden their bestes and their her- 

bergage, 
And of hir labour toke hir suste- 

tenance. 
After that the erthe gave them 

abundance. 

Among this poure folk ther dwelt 

a man. 
Which that was holden poorest of 

them all : 
But highe God somtime senden can 
His grace unto a litel oxes stall : 
Janicola men of that thorpe him call. 
A doughter had he, faire enough to 

sight. 
And Grisildis this yonge maiden 

hlght. 

But for to speke of vertuous beau- 
tee. 

Then was she one the fairest under 
Sonne : 

Ful pourle'y yfostred up was she : 

No likerous lust was in hire herte 
yronne ; 

Wei ofter of the well than of the 
tonne 

She dranke, and for she wolde vertue 
plese. 

She knew wel labour, but none idel 
ese. 



But though this mayden tendre 

were of age. 
Yet in the brest of her virginitee 
Ther was enclosed sad and ripe 

corage : 
And in great reverence and charitee 
Her olde poure father f ostred she : 
A few sheep spinning on the feld she 

kept, 
She wolde not ben idel til she slept. 

And whan she homeward came, 
she wolde bring 
Wortes and other herbes times oft, 
The which she shred and sethe for 

her living, 
And made her bed ful hard, and 

nothing soft : 
And ay she kept her fadres life on 

loft 
With every obeisance and diligence, 
That child may don to fadres rever- 
ence. 

Upon Grisilde, this poure creature, 
Ful often sithe this markis sette his 

eye, 
As he on hunting rode paraventure : 
And whan it fell that he might hire 

espie. 
He not with wanton loking of folic 
His eyen cast on her, but in sad 

wise 
Upon her chere he wold him oft 

avise. 

Commending in his herte her 

womanhede. 
And eke her vertue, passing any 

wight 
Of so yong age, as wel in chere as 

dede. 
For though the peple have no great 

insight 
In virtue, he considered ful right 
Her bountee, and disposed that he 

wold 
Wedde her only, if ever he wedden 

shold. 

The day of wedding came, but no 

wight can 
Tellen what woman that it shulde 

be. 
For which mervaille wondred many 

a man. 
And saiden, whan they were in pri- 

vetee. 



NAERATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



389 



Wol not our lord yet leve his vanitee ? 
Wol he not wedde? alas, alas the 

while ! 
Why wol he thus himself and us 

begile ? 

But natheles this markis hath do 

make 
Of gemmes, sette in gold and in 

asure, 
Broches and ringes, for Grisildes 

sake, 
And of her clothing toke he the 

mesure 
Of a maiden like unto her stature, 
And eke of other ornamentes all. 
That unto swiche a wedding shulde 

fall. 

The time of underne of the same 

day 
Approclieth, that this wedding 

shulde be, 
And all the paleis put was in ar- 
ray, 
Both halle and chambres, eche in 

his degree, 
Houses of office stuffed with plen- 

tee 
Ther mayst thou see of dainteous 

vitaille. 
That may be found, as far as lasteth 

Itaille. 

This real markis richely arraide, 
Lordes and ladies in liis compagnie. 
The which unto the feste weren 

praide. 
And of his retenue the bachelerie. 
With many a sound of sondry mel- 
odic, 
Unto the village, of the which I told. 
In this array the righte way they 
hold. 

Grisilde of this (God wot) ful inno- 
cent. 

That for her shapen was all this 
array. 

To fetchen water at a welle is went. 

And Cometh home as sone as ever 
she may. 

For wel she had herd say, that thilke 
day 

The markis shulde wedde, and, if 
she might. 

She wold^ fayn han seen some of 
that sight. 



She thought, "I wol with other 

maidens stond, 
That ben my felawes, in our dore, 

and see 
The markisesse, and therto wol I fond 
To don at home, as soon as it may be. 
The labour which that longeth unto 

me, 
And than I may at leiser her behold. 
If she this way unto the castel hold." 

And as she wolde over the thres- 

wold gon, 
The markis came and gan her for to 

call. 
And she set doun her water-pot anon 
Beside the threswold in an oxes stall. 
And doun upon her knees she gan to 

fall. 
And with sad countenance kneleth 

still. 
Til she had herd what was the lordes 

will. 

This thoughtful markis spake unto 

this maid 
Ful soberly, and said in this manere : 
"Wlier is your fader, Grisildis?" he 

said. 
And she with reverence in humble 

chere 
Answered," Lord, he is al redy here." 
And in she goth withouten lenger 

lette. 
And to the markis she hire fader 

fette. 

He by the hand than toke this 

poure man. 
And saide thus, whan he him had 

aside : 
" Janicola, I neither may nor can 
Longer the plesance of mine herte 

hide. 
If that tliou vouchesauf, what so 

betide. 
Thy doughter wol I take or that I 

wend 
As for my wif, unto her live's end. 

"Thou lovest me, that wot I wel 

certain, 
And art my faithful liegeman ybore. 
And all that liketh me, I dare wel 

sain 
It liketh thee, and specially therfore 
Tell me that point, that I have said 

before, 



390 



PARNASSUS. 



If that thou wolt unto this purpos 

drawe, 
To taken me as for thy son in lawe." 

This soden cas this man astoned 

so, 
That red he wex, abaist, and al 

quaking 
He stood, unnethes said he worde's 

mo, 
But only thus; "Lord," quod he, 

"my willing 
Is as ye wol, ne ageins your liking 
I wol no thing, min owen lord so 

dere. 
Eight as you list, governeth this 

matere." 

"Than wol I," quod this markis 
softely, 

" That in thy chambre, I, and thou, 
and she. 

Have a collation, and wost thou why ? 

For I wol ask her, if it her wille be 

To be my wif, and rule her after 
me: 

And all this shal be done in thy 
presence, 

I wol not speke out of thine au- 
dience." 

And in the chambre, while they 
were about 
The tretee, which as ye shul after 

here. 
The peple came into the hous with- 
out, 
And wondred them, in how honest 

manere 
Ententifly she kept hire fader dere : 
But utterly Grisildis wonder might. 
For never erst ne saw she swiche a 
sight. 

No wonder is though that she be 

astoued. 
To see so gret a gest come in that 

place, 
She never was to non such gestes 

woned, 
For which she loked with ful pale 

face. 
But shortly forth this matere for to 

chace, 
These are the worde's that the 

markis said 
To this benigne', veray, faithful 

maid. 



" Grisilde," he said, "yeshulnwel 

understond, 
It liketh to your fader and to me, 
That I you wedde, and eke it may so 

stond 
As I suppose, ye wol that it so be : 
But thise demaundes aske I first 

(quod he) 
That sin it shal be don in hasty wise, 
Wol ye assent, or elles you avise ? 

"I say this, be ye redy with good 
herte 

To all my lust, and that I freely may 

As me best thiuketh do you laugh or 
smerte. 

And never ye to grutchen, night ne 
day. 

And eke whan I say yea, ye say not 
nay, 

Neither by word, ne frouning coun- 
tenance ? 

Swere this, and here I swere our alli- 
ance." 

Wondring upon this thing, quak- 
ing for drede. 

She saide, " Lord, indigne and un- 
worthy 

Am I, to thilke honour, that ye me 
bede. 

But as ye wol yourself, right so wol I : 

And here I swere, that never will- 
ingly 

In werk, ne thought, i n'ill you dis- 
obeie 

For to be ded, though me were loth 
to deie." 

"This is ynough, Grisilde min," 

quod he. 
And forth he goth with a ful sobre 

chere. 
Out at the dore, and after then came 

she. 
And to the peple he said in this 

manere : 
"This is my wif," quod he, "that 

stondeth here. 
Honoureth her, and loveth her, I 

pray, 
Who so me loveth, ther n'ls no more 

to say." 

And for that nothing of her olde 
gere 
She shulde bring into his hous, he 
bad 



NARRATIVJi: POEMS AND BALLADS. 



391 



That women shuld despoilen her 

right there, 
Of which tliise ladies weren notliing 

glad 
To handle her clothes wherin she 

was clad : 
But natheles this maiden bright of 

hew 
Fro foot to hed they clothed han all 

new. 

Her heres han they kempt, that 

lay untressed 
Fill rudely, and with her fingres smal 
A coroune on her hed they han 

ydressed. 
And sette her fill of nouches gret 

and smal : 
Of her array what shuld I make a 

tale? 
Unneth the peple her knew for her 

fairnesse, 
Wlian she transmew^d was in swiche 

richesse. 

This markis hath her spoused with 

a ring 
Brought for the same cause, and than 

her sette 
Upon an hors snow-white, and wel 

ambling, 
And to his paleis, or he lenger lette, 
(With joyful peple, that her lad and 

mette) 
Conveyed her, and thus the day they 

spende 
In revel, til the sonne gan descende. 

And shortly forth this tale for to 

chace, 
I say, that to this new^ markisesse 
God hath swiche favour sent her of 

his grace, 
That it ne semeth not by likelinesse 
That she was borne and fed in rude- 

nesse. 
As in a cote, or in an exes stall. 
But nourished in an emperoures hall. 

To every wight she waxen is so dere. 
And worshipful, that folk ther she 

was bore 
And fro her birthe knew her yere by 

yere, 
Unnethes trowed they, but dorst han 

swore, 
That to Janicle, of which I spake 

before, 



h 



She doughter n'as, for as by conjec- 
ture 

Hem thoughte she was another crea- 
ture. 

For though that ever vertuous 
was she. 

She was encresed in swiche excel- 
lence 

Of thewe's good, yset in high boun- 
tee, 

And so discrete, and faire of elo- 
quence. 

So benigne, and so digne of rev- 
erence. 

And coude' so the peples herte em- 
brace. 

That eche her loveth that loketh on 
her face. 

Nor only of Saluces in the toun 
Published was the bountee of her 

name, 
But eke beside in many a regioun, 
If one saitli wel, another saith the 

same : 
So spredeth of her hie bountee the 

fame, 
That men and women, yong as wel 

as old, 
Gon to Saluces upon her to behold. 

Thus Walter lowly, nay but really, 
Wedded with fortuuat honestetee. 
In Godde's peace liveth fill esily 
At home, and grace ynough outward 

had he : 
And for he saw that under low de- 
gree 
Was honest vertue hid, the peple 

him held 
A prudent man, and that is seen ful 
seld. 

Not only this Grisildis thurgh 

her wit 
Coude all the fete of wifly homli- 

nesse, 
But eke whan that the cas required 

it, 
The comune profit coude she re- 

dresse : 
Ther n'as discord, rancour, ne 

hevinesse 
In all the lond, that she ne coude 

appese, 
And wisely bring hem all in hertes 

ese. 



392 



PARNASSUS. 



Though that her husbond absent 

were or non, 
If gentihnen, or other of thatcontree 
Were wroth, she wolde bringen them 

at one, 
So wise and ripe wordes hadde she, 
And jugement of so gret equitee. 
That she from heven sent was, as 

men wend, 
Peple to save, and every wrong to 

amend. 

Not longe time after that this 

Grisilde 
Was wedded, she a doughter hath 

ybore. 
All had hire lever han borne a knave 

child : 
Glad was the markis and his folk 

therfore. 
For though a maiden childe come 

all before, 
She may unto a knave child atteine 
By likelyhed, sin she n'is not bar- 

reine. 

PAKS TERTIA, 

Ther fell, as it befalleth times mo. 
Whan that this childe had souked 

but a thro we, 
This markis in his hert^ longed so 
To tempt his wif, her sadnesse for 

to knowe, 
That he ne might out of his herte 

throwe 
This marveillous desir his wif to 

assay, 
Needles, God wot, he thought hire 

to affray. 

He had assaied her enough before, 
And found her ever good, what 

nedeth it 
Her for to tempt, and alway more 

and more ? 
Though some men praise it for a 

subtil wit, 
But as for me, I say that evil it sit 
To assay a wife when that it is no 

nede. 
And putten her in anguish and in 

drede. 

For which this markis wrought in 

this manere ; 
He came a-night alone ther as she lay 
With Sterne face, and with f ul trouble 

chere, 



And sayde thus: "Grisilde" (quod 

he) "that day 
That I you toke out of your poure 

array, 
And put you in estat of high noblesse, 
Ye han it not forgotten, as I gesse. 

"I say, Grisilde, this present dig- 

nitee. 
In which that I have put you, as I 

trow, 
Maketh you not forgetful for to be 
That I you toke in poure estat ful 

low. 
For ony wele ye mote yourselven 

know. 
Take hede of every word that I you 

say, 
Ther is no wight that hereth it but 

we tway. 

" Ye wote yourself wel how that 

ye came here 
Into this hous, it is not long ago. 
And though to me ye be right lefe 

and dere. 
Unto my gentils ye be nothing so : 
They say, to hem it is gret shame 

and wo 
For to be suggetes, and ben in ser- 

vage 
To thee, that borne art of a smal 

linage. 

" And namely since thy doughter 

was ybore. 
These wordes han they spoken 

douteles, 
But I desire, as I have don before. 
To live my lif with them in rest and 

peace : 
I may not in this case be reccheles ; 
I mote do with thy doughter for the 

best. 
Not as I wold, but as my gentils lest. 

"And yet, God wote, this is ful 

loth to me : 
But natheles withouten youre weting 
I wol nought do, but thus wol I 

(quod he) 
That ye to me assenten in this thing. 
Shew now youre patience in youre 

werking 
That ye me hight and swore in youre 

village 
The day that maked was our mari- 

age." 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



393 



Wliau she liad herd all this, she 
not ameved 

Neyther in word, in chere, ne 
countenance, 

(For as it seined, she was notagreved) 

She sayde : " Lord, all lith in your 
plesance. 

My child and I, with hertely obei- 
sance 

Ben youres all, and ye naay save or 
spill, 

Your owen thing: werketh after 
your will. 

Ther may no thing, so God my 

soule save, 
Like unto you, that may displesen 

me: 
Ne I desire nothing for to have, 
Ne drede for to lese, sauf only ye : 
This will is in myn herte, and ay 

shal be, 
No length of time, or deth may this 

deface, 
Ne change my corage to an other 

place." 

Glad was this markis for her 

answering, 
But yet he f eined as he were not so, 
Al drery was his chere and his 

loking, 
Whan that he shuld out of the cham- 

bre go. 
Sone after this, a furlong way or two, 
He prively hath told all his entent 
Unto a man, and to his wif him sent. 

A maner sergeant was this prive 

man, 
The which he faithful often founden 

had 
In thinges gret, and eke swiche folk 

wel can 
Don execution on thinges bad : 
The lord knew wel, that he him loved 

and drad. 
And whan this sergeant wist his 

lordes will, 
Into the chambre he stalked him ful 

still. 

"Madame," he sayd, "ye mote 

forgive it me. 
Though I do thing, to which I am 

constreined : 
Ye ben so wise, that right wel 

knowen ye, 



That lordes hestes may not ben 
yfeined. 

They may wel be bewailed and com- 
plained. 

But men mote nedes to their lust 
obey, 

And so wol I, ther n'is no more to 
say. 

" This child I am commanded for 

to take." 
And spake no more, but out the 

child he hent 
Despiteously, and gan a chere to 

make, 
As though he wold have slain it, or 

he went, 
Grisildis must al suffer and al con- 
sent: 
And as a lambe, she sitteth meke 

and still, 
And let this cruel sergeant do his 

will. 

Suspecious was the diffame of this 

man. 
Suspect his face, suspect his word 

also. 
Suspect the time in which he this 

began : 
Alas ! her doughter, that she loved 

so, 
She wende he wold han slaien it 

right tho. 
But natlieles she neither wept ne 

siked, 
Conforming her to that the markis 

liked. 

But at the last to speken she began. 
And mekely she to the sergeant praid 
(So as he was a worthy gentil man) 
That she might kiss her chikl, or 

that it deid : 
And in herbarme this litel child she 

leid. 
With ful sad face, and gan the child 

to blisse, 
And lulled it, and after gan it kisse. 

And thus she sayd in her benigne 

vols: 
" Farewel, my child, I shal thee 

never see. 
But sin I have thee marked with 

the crois, 
Of thilke fader yblessed mote thou 

be. 



•394 



PARNASSUS. 



That for us died upon a crois of tree : 
Thy soule, litel child, I him betalve, 
For this night shalt thou dien for 
my salve." 

I trow that to a norice in this case 
It had ben hard this routhe for to 

see: 
Wei might a moder than han cried 

alas, 
But natheles so sad stedf ast was she, 
That she endured all adversitee, 
And to the sergeant mekely she sayde, 
" Have here agen your litel yonge 

mayde. 

"Goth now" (quod she) "and 

doth my lorde's hest : 
And one thing wold I pray you of 

your grace. 
But if my lord forbade you at the lest, 
Burieth this litel body in some place, 
That bestes ne no birdies itto-race." 
But he no word to that purpos wold 

say, 
But toke the child and went upon 

his way. 

This sergeant came unto his lord 

again, 
And of Grisildes wordes and her chere 
He told him point for point, in short 

and plain, 
And him presented with his doughter 

dere. 
Somwhat this lord hath routlie in 

his manere, 
But natheles his purpos held he still, 
As lordes don, whan they wol han 

hir will. 

And bad tliis sergeant that lie 

prively 
Shulde this child ful softe wind and 

wrappe, 
With alle circumstances tendrely. 
And carry it in a coffer, or in a lappe ; 
But upon peine his bed off for to 

swappe 
That no man -shulde know of his 

entent, 
Ne whence he came, ne whither that 

he went; 

But at Boloigne, unto his sister 
dere. 
That thilke time of Pavie was 
countesse. 



He shuld it take, and shew hire this 

matere, 
Beseching hire to don lier besinesse 
Tills child to fostren in all gentillesse, 
And whos cliild that it was he bade 

lier hide 
From every wight, for ought that 

may betide. 

This sergeant goth, and hath ful- 

filde this thing. 
But to this marquis now retoriie we ; 
For now gotli he ful fast imagining, 
If by his wives chere he mighte see. 
Or by her wordes apperceive, that she 
Were changed, but he never coud 

hire finde. 
But ever in one ylike sad and kinde. 

As glad, as liumble, as besy in 

service 
And eke in love, as she was wont to 

be. 
Was she to him, in every manner wise ; 
Ke of laer doughter not a word spake 

she: 
Non accident for non adversitee 
Was seen in her, ne never her 

dougliter's name 
Ne nevened she, for ernest ne for 

game. 

PARS QUARTA. 

In this estat ther passed ben foure 

yere 
Er she with childe was, but, as God 

wold, 
A knave childe she bare by this 

Waltere 
Ful gracious, and fair for to behold : 
And whan that folk it to his fader 

told. 
Not only he, but all his contree mery 
Was for this childe, and God they 

thonke and hery.. 

Whan it was two yere old, and 
from the brest 
Departed of his norice, on a day 
This markis caughte yet another lest 
To tempte liis wif yet ofter, if he 

may. 
O ! nedeles was she tempted in assay. 
But wedded men ne connen no 

mesure. 
Whan that they finde a patient crea- 
ture. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



395 



'*Wif," quod this markis, 

liaii held or this 
My peple siively beren our mariage, 
And namely sin my son yboren is, 
Now is it worse tlian ever in all our 

age: 
The murmur sleth niyn herte and 

my corage, 
For to mine eres cometh the vois so 

smerte, 
Tliat it wel nie destroyed hath my 

herte. 

" Now say they thus, whan Walter 

is agon, 
Than shal the blood of Janicle suc- 

cede, 
And ben our lord, for other han we 

none : 
Swiche wordes sajrn my peple, it is 

no drede, 
Wel ought I of swiche murmur 

taken hede, 
For certainly I drede al swiche sen- 
tence, 
Though they not plainen in myn 

audience. 

"I wolde live in pees, if that I 

might: 
Wlierfore I am disposed utterly, 
As I his suster served er by night, 
Riglit so thinke I to serve him 

prively. 
This warne I you, that ye not sod- 

enly 
Out of yourself for no wo shuld 

outraie, 
Beth patient, and thereof I you praie." 

"I have," quod she, "sayd thus 

and ever shal, 
I wol no thing, ne n'ill no thing 

certain, 
But as you list : not greveth me at al, 
Though that my doughter and my 

sone be slain 
At your commandement : that is to 

sain, 
I have not had no part of children 

twein. 
But first sikenesse, and after wo and 

peine. 

" Ye ben my lord, doth with your 
owen thing 
Right as you list, asketh no rede of 
me: 



For as I left at home al my clothing 
Whan I came first to you, right so 

(quod she) 
Left I my will and al my libertee. 
And toke your clothing : wherf ore I 

you prey. 
Doth your plesance, I wol youre 

lust obey. 

" And certes, if I hadde prescience 
Your will to know, er ye your lust 

me told, 
I wold it do withouten negligence : 
But now I wote your lust, and what 

ye wold. 
All your plesance ferme and stable 

I hold. 
For wist I that my deth might do 

you ese. 
Right gladly wold I dien, you to 

plese. 

" Deth may not maken no compari- 
soun 

Unto your love." And whan this 
markis say 

The Constance of his wif, he cast 
adoun 

His eyen two, and wondreth how 
she may 

In patience suffer al this array: 

And forth he goth with drery con- 
tenance. 

But to his herte it was ful gret ples- 
ance. 

This ugly sergeant in the same 
wise 

That he her doughter caughte, right 
so he 

(Or werse, if men can any werse de- 
vise) 

Hath lient her son, that ful was of 
beautee : 

And ever in on so patient was she, 

That she no chere made of hevi- 
nesse. 

But kist her sone and after gan it 
blesse. 

Save this she praied him, if that 

he might. 
Her litel sone he wold in erthe 

grave, 
Ilis tendre limmes, delicat to sight, 
Fro foules and fro bestes for to save. 
But she non answer of him might* 

have. 



396 



PARNASSUS. 



He went his way, as liim no thing 

ne rought, 
But to Boloigne he tendrely it 

brought. 

This markis wondreth ever lenger 

the more 
Upon her patience, and if tliat he 
Ne hadde sothly knowen tlierbefore, 
That parfitly her children loved she, 
He wold han wend that of som sub- 

tiltee 
And of malice, or for cruel corage. 
That she had suffred this with sad 

visage. 

But wel he knew, that next him- 
self, certain 

She loved her children best in every 
wise. 

But now of women wold I asken 
fayn, 

If thise assaies mighten not suffise ; 

What coud a sturdy husbond more 
devise 

To preve her wifhood, and her sted- 
fastnesse, 

And he continuing ever in sturdi- 
nesse ? 

But ther be folk of such condi- 
tion. 

That, whan they han a certain pur- 
pos take. 

They can not stint of their inten- 
tion, 

But, right as they were bounden to 
a stake, 

They wol not of their firste purpose 
slake : 

Eight so this markis fully hath pur- 
posed 

To tempt his wif, as he was first dis- 
posed. 

He waiteth, if by word or conte- 
nance 

That she to him was changed of 
corage : 

Biit never coud he finden variance, 

She was ay one in herte and in vis- 
age. 

And ay the further that she was in 
age, 

The more trewe (if that were possi- 
ble) 

She was to him in love, and more 
penible. 



For which it semed thus, that of 
them two 

Ther was but one will ; for as Wal- 
ter lest. 

The same lust was hire plesance also ; 

And God be thanked, all fell for the 
best. 

She shewed wel, for no worldly un- 
rest 

A wif, as of hirself, no thing ne 
sholde 

Wille in effect, but as her husbond 
wolde. 

The sclandre of Walter wonder 

wide spradde, 
That of a cruel herte he wikkedly. 
For he a poure woman wedded hadde, 
Hath murdred both his children 

prively : 
Such murmur was among them 

comunly. 
No wonder is : for to the peples' ei-e 
Ther came no word, but that they 

murdred were. 

For which ther as his people ther- 

before 
Had loved him wel, the sclandre of 

his dift'ame 
Made them that they him hateden 

tiierf ore : 
To ben a murdrour is an hateful 

name. 
But natheles, for ernest ne for game, 
He of his cruel purpos n'olde stente, 
To tempt his wif was sette all his 

entente. 

Whan that his doughter twelf yere 
was of age, 

He to the court of Rome, in subtil 
wise 

Enformed of his will, sent his mes- 
sage. 

Commanding him, swiche billes to 
devise, 

As to his cruel purpos may suflBse, 

How that the pope, as for his peples 
rest, 

Bade him to wed another, if him lest. 

I say he bade, they shulden con- 
trefete - • 

The popes bulles, making mention 
That he hath leve his firste wif to 

lete. 
As by the popes dispensation, 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



397 



To stinten rancour and dissension 
Betwix his peple and him: thus 

spake the bull, 
The which they han published at 

the full. 

The rude peple, as no wonder is, 
Wenden ful wel, that it had ben 

right so : 
But whan thise tidings came to Gri- 

sildis, 
I deme that her herte was ful of wo ; 
But she ylike sad for evermo 
Disposed was, this humble creature, 
The adversitee of fortune al to en- 
dure ; 

Abiding ever his lust and his ples- 
aace. 
To whom that she was yeven, herte 

and al. 
As to hire veray worldly suffisance. 
But shortly if this storie tell I shal. 
This markis writen hath in special 
A lettre, in which he sheweth his en- 
tente, 
And secretly he to Boloigne it sente, 

To the erl of Pavie, which that 
hadde tho 
Wedded his suster, prayed he spe- 
cially 
To bringen home agein his children 

two 
In lionourable estat al openly : 
But one thing he him prayed utterly. 
That he to no wight, though men 

wold enquere, 
Shulde not tell whos children that 
they were, 

But say, the maiden shuld ywedded 
be 
Unto the markis of Saluces anon. 
And as this erl was prayed, so did he, 
For at day sette he on his way is gon 
Toward Saluces, and lordes many on 
In rich arraie, this maiden for to gide, 
Her yonge brother riding hire beside. 

Arraied was toward her mariage 
This fresshe maiden, ful of gemmes 

clere, 
Her brother, which that seven yere 

was of age, 
Arraied eke ful fresh in his manere : 
And thus in gi'et noblesse and with 

glade chere 



Toward Saluces shaping their jour- 
nay 

Fro day to day they riden in their 
way. 

PAES QUINTA. 

Among al this, after his wicked 
usage, 
This markis yet his wif to tempten 

more 
To the uttereste proof of hire corage, 
Fully to liave experience and lore. 
If that she were as stedefast as be- 
fore. 
He on a day in open audience 
Ful boistously hath said her this 
sentence : 

" Certes, Grisilde, I had ynough 

plesance 
To han you to my wif, for your 

goodnesse, 
And for your troutlie, and for your 

obeysance. 
Not for your linage, ne for your rich- 

esse. 
But now know I in veray sothfast- 

nesse. 
That in gret lordship, if I me wel 

avise, 
Ther is gret servitude in sondry wise. 

" I may not do, as every ploughman 
may: 

My peple me constreineth for to 
take 

Another wif, and crien day by day ; 

And eke the pope rancour for to 
slake 

Consenteth it, that dare I under- 
take : 

And trewely, thus moche I wol you 
say. 

My newe wif is coming by the way. 

"Be strong of herte, and voide 
anon hire place, 

And thilke dower that ye broughten 
me 

Take it agen, I grant it of my grace, 

Returneth to your fadres hous, 
(quod he) 

No man may alway have prosperitee. 

With even herte I rede you to en- 
dure 

The stroke of fortune, or of aven- 
ture." 



398 



PARNASSUS. 



And she agen answerd in pa- 
tience: 

"My lord," quod she, " I wote, and 
wist alway, 

How tliat betwixen your magnifi- 
cence 

And my poverte no wight ne can ne 
may 

Maiden comparison, it is no nay ; 

I ne held me never digne in no man- 
ere 

To be your wif , ne yet your cham- 
berere. 

"And in this hous, ther ye me lady 

made, 
(The highe God take I for my wit- 

nesse, 
And all so wisly he my soule glad) 
I never held me lady ne maistresse, 
But humble servant to your worthi- 

nesse, 
And ever shal, while that my lif may 

dure, 
Aboven every worldly creature. 

" That ye so longe of your benigni- 

tee 
Han holden me in honour and no- 

bley, 
Wheras I was not worthy for to be, 
That thanke I God and you, to whom 

I prey 
Foryelde it you, ther is no more to 

sey: 
Unto my fader gladly wol I wende, 
And with him dwell unto my lives 

ende; 

"Ther I was fostred of a childe 

ful smal. 
Till I be dead my life there will I 

lead, 
A widew clene in body, herte and al. 
For sith I gave to you my maiden- 

hede, 
And am your trewe wif, it is no drede, 
God shilde such a lordes wif to take 
Another man to husbond or to make. 

" And of your newe wif, God of 

his grace 
So graunte you wele and prosperite : 
For I wol gladly yelden her my place, 
In which that I was blisful wont to 

be. 
For sith it liketh you, my lord, 

(quod she) 



That whilom weren all mjm berths 

rest. 
That I shal gon, I wot go whan you 

lest. 

" But ther as ye me profer swiche 
dowaire 

As I first brought, it is wel in my 
mind, 

It were my wretched clothes, noth- 
ing faire, 

The which to me were hard now for 
to find. 

O goode God ! how gentil and how 
kind 

Ye semed by your speche and your 
visage, 

The day that maked was cure mar- 
riage ! 

" But soth is said, algate I find it 

trewe. 
For in effect it preved is on me, 
Love is not old, as whan that it is 

newe. 
But certes, lord, for non adversitee 
To dien in this cas, it shal not be 
That ever in word or werke I shal 

repent. 
That I you yave min herte in whole 

entent. 

" My lord, ye wot,, that in my fa- 
ther's place 

Ye did me stripe out of my poure 
wede. 

And richely ye clad me of your 
grace ; 

To you brought I nought elles out 
of drede. 

But faith and nakednesse, and mai- 
denhede ; 

And here agen your clothing I re- 
store. 

And eke your wedding ring for ever- 
more. 

"The remenaut of your jeweles 

redy be 
Within your chambre, I dare it safly 

sain; 
Naked out of my father's hous 

(quod she) 
I came, and naked I mote turne again. 
All your plesance wolde I folwefain: 
But yet I hope it be not your entent, 
TJiat I smockless out of your paleis 

went. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



399 



" Ye coude not do so dishonest a 

thing, 
That thilke wombe, in which your 

children lay, 
Shulde before the peple, in my walk- 
ing, 
Be seen al bare: wherfore I you 

pray 
Let me not like a worme go by the 

way: 
Remembre you, min owen lord so 

dere, 
I was your wif , though I unworthy 

were. 

" Wlierfore in guerdon of my maid- 

enhede, 
Wliich that I brought and not agen 

I bere, 
As vouchesauf to yeve me to my 

mede 
But swiche a smok as I was wont to 

were, 
That I therwith may wrie the wombe 

of her 
That was your wif : and here I take 

my leve 
Of you, min owen lord, lest I you 

greve." 

" The smok," quod he, " that thou 

hast on thy bake, 
Let it be still, and bere it forth with 

thee." 
But wel unnethes thilke word he 

spake. 
But went his way for routhe and for 

pitee. 
Before the folk hireselven stripeth 

she, 
And in her smok, with foot and hed 

al bare, 
Toward her fadres hous forth is she 

fare. 

The folk her folwen weping in hir 
wey, 

And fortune ay they cursen as they 
gon: 

But she fro weping kept her eyen 
drey, 

Ne in this time word, ne spake she 
non. 

Her fader, that this tiding herd 
anon, 

Curseth the day and time, that na- 
ture 

Shope him to ben a lives creature. 



For out of doute this olde poure 

man 

Was ever in suspect of her mariage : 

For ever he demed, sin it first began, 

That whan the lord fulfilled had his 

corage. 
Him wolde thinke it were a dispar- 
age 
To his estat, so lowe for to alight. 
And voiden her as sone as ever he 
might. 

Agein his doughter hastily goth he, 

(For he by noise of folk knew her 
coming) 

And with her olde cote, as it might 
be. 

He covereth her ful sorwefully wep- 
ing: 

But on her body might he it not 
bring. 

For rude was the cloth, and more of 
age 

By daies fele than at her mariage. 

Thus with her fader for a certain 
space 
Dwelleth this flour of wifly patience, 
That nother by her wordes ne her 

face, 
Beforn the folk, ne eke in her ab- 
sence, 
Ne shewed she that her was don 

offence, 
Ne of her high estat no remembrance 
Ne hadde she, as by hire coutenance. 

No wonder is, for in her gret estat 
Her gost was ever in pleine humili- 

tee; 
No tendre mouth, no herte delicat, 
No pompe, no semblaut of realtee ; 
But ful of patient benignitee. 
Discrete, and prideles, ay honoura- 
ble. 
And to her husbond ever meke and 
stable. 

Men speke of Job, and most for 

his humblesse. 
As clei-kes, whan hem list* can wel 

endite. 
Namely of men, but as in sothfast- 

nesse. 
Though clerkes preisen women but 

a lite, 
Ther can no man in humblesse him 

acquite 



400 



PARNASSUS. 



As woman can, ne can be half so 

trewe 
As women ben, but it be falle of 

newe. 

PABS SEXTA. 

Fro Boloigne is this erl of Pavie 

come, 
Of wbich the fame up sprang to 

more and lesse : 
And to the peples eres all and some 
Was couth eke, that a newe mar- 

kisesse 
He witli him brought, in swiche 

pomp and richesse. 
That never was ther seen with 

mannes eye 
So noble array in al West Lumbardie. 

The markis, which that shope and 

knew all this, 
Er that this erl was come, sent his 

message 
For thilke poure sely Grisildis ; 
And she with humble herte and glad 

visage, 
Not with no swollen thought in her 

corage, 
Came at his hest, and on her knees 

her sette, 
And reverently and wisely she him 

grette. 

"Grisilde," (quod he) "my will is 

utterly. 
This maiden, that shal wedded be to 

me. 
Received be to-morwe as really 
As it possible is in myn hous to be : 
And eke that every wight in his 

degree 
Have his estat in sitting and service. 
And high plesance, as I can best 

devise. 

" I have no woman suffisant certain 

The chambres for to array in ordi- 
nance 

After my lust, and therfore wolde 
I fain, 

Tliat thin were all swiche manere 
governance : 

Thou knowest eke of old all my 
plesance ; 

Though thin array be bad, and evil 
besey. 

Do thou thy devoir at the leste wey. 



Not only, lord, that I am glad 

(quod she) 
To don your lust, but I desire also 
You for to serve and plese in my 

degree, 
Withouten fainting, and shal evermo: 
Ne never for no wele, ne for no wo, 
Ne shal the gost within myn herte 

stente 
To love you best with all my trewe 

entente." 

And with that word she gan the 

hous to dight, 
And tables for to sette, and beddes 

make. 
And peined hire to don all that she 

might, 
Praying the chambereres for Godde's' 

sake 
To hasten hem, and faste swepe and 

shake. 
And she the moste serviceable of all 
Hath every chambre arraied, and his 

hall. 

Abouten undern gan this erl alight, 
That with him brought thise noble 

children twey ; 
For which the peple ran to see the 

sight 
Of hir arrayed, so richely besey : 
And than at erst amonges them they 

sey, 
That Walter was no fool, though 

that him lest 
To change his wif ; for it was for the 

best. 

For she is fairer, as they demen 

all, 
Than is Grisilde, and more tendre 

of age. 
And fairer fruit betwene hem shulde 

fall. 
And more plesant for hire high 

linage : 
Hire brother eke so faire was of 

visage, 
That hem to seen the peple hath 

caught plesance. 
Commending now the markis gover- 
nance. 

O stormy peple; unsad and ever 
untrewe. 
And undiscrete, and changing as a 
fane. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



401 



Delighting ever in rombel that is 

newe, 
For like the mone waxen ye and 

wane : 
Ay fill of clapping, dere ynough a 

jane, 
Your dome is fals, your Constance 

evil preveth, 
A ful gret fool is he that on you 

leveth. 

Thus saiden sade folk in that citee, 
Whan that the peple gased up and 

doun : 
For they were glad, right for the 

noveltee, 
To have a newe lady of hir toun. 
No more of this make I now men- 

tioun, 
But to Grisilde agen I wol me dresse, 
And telle hire Constance, and hire 

besinesse. 

Ful besy was Grisilde in every 

thing, 
That to the feste was appertinent ; 
Eight naught was she abaist of hire 

clothing, 
Though it were rude, and somdel eke 

to-rent, 
But with glad chere to the yate is 

went 
With other folk, to grete the mar- 

kisesse, 
And after that doth forth hire 

besinesse. 

With so glad chere his gestes she 
receiveth, 

And conningly everich in his degree. 

That no deiCaute no man apper- 
ceiveth. 

But ay they wondren what she 
mighte be, 

That in so poure array was for to 
see. 

And coude swlche honour and rever- 
ence, 

And worthily they preisfin hire pru- 
dence. 

In all this mene while she ue stent 
This maide and eke hire brother to 

commend 
With all hire herte in ful benigne 

entent, 
So wel, that no man coud hire preise 
amend : 

26 



But at the last whan that thise lordes 

wend 
To sitten doun to mete, he gan to call 
Grisilde, as she was besy in the hall. 

"Grisilde, (quod he, as it were in 

his play) 
How liketh thee my wif, and hire 

beautee ? ' ' 
" Eight wel, my lord, (quod she,) for 

in good fay, 
A fairer saw I never non than she : 
I pray to God yeve you prosperitee ; 
And so I hope, that he wol to you 

send 
Plesance ynough unto your lives 

end." 

" O thing beseche I you and warne 
also. 
That ye ne prikke with no turment- 

ing 
This tendre maiden as ye han do mo : 
For she is fostred in her norishing 
More tendrely, and to my supposing 
She mighte not adversitee endure, 
As coude a poure fostred creature." 

And when this Walter saw her 

patience, 
Her glade chere, and no malice at 

all, 
And he so often hadde her don 

offence. 
And she ay sade and constant as a 

wall. 
Continuing ever her innocence over 

all, 
This sturdy markis gan his herte 

dresse 
To rewe upon her wifly stedefast- 

nesse. 

" This is ynough, Grisilde min, 

(quod he,) 
Be now no more agast, ne evil apaid, 
I have thy faith and thy benignitee, 
As wel as ever woman was, assaid 
I gret estat, and pourelich arraied : 
Now know I, dere wif, thy stedefast- 

nesse. 
And her in armes toke, and gan to 

kesse. 

And she for wonder toke of it no 
kepe. 
She herde not what thing he to her 
said: 



402 



PARNASSUS. 



She ferde as she had stert out of a 

slepe. 
Til she out of her masednesse abraid. 
"Grisilde, (quod he,) by God that 

for us deid, 
Thou art my wit, non other I ne have, 
Ne never had, as God my soule save. 

" This is thy dough ter, which thou 
hast supposed 
To be my wif ; that other faithfully 
Shal be min heir, as I have ay dis- 
posed ; 
Thou bare hem of thy body trewely : 
At Boloigne have I kept hem prively : 
Take hem agen, for now maist thou 

not say, 
That thou hast lorn non of thy chil- 
dren tway. 

" And folk, that otherwise han 

said of me, 
I warne hem wel, that I have don 

this dede 
For no malice, ne for no crueltee. 
But for to assay in thee thy woman- 

hede: 
And not to slee my children ( God f or- 

bede) 
But for to kepe hem prively and still, 
Til I thy purpos knew, and all thy 

will." 

Whan she this herd aswoune doun 

she falleth 
For pitous joye, and after her swoun- 

ing 
She both her yonge children to her 

calleth, 
And in her armes pitously weping 
Embraceth hem, and tendrely kissing 
Ful like a moder with her salte teres 
She bathed both her visage aud her 

heres. 

O, which a pitous thing it was to see 
Her swouning, and her humble vols 

to h,ere ! 
" Grand mercy, lord, God thank it 

you (quod she) 
That ye han saved me my children 

dere: 
Now rekke I never to be ded right 

here, 
Sin I stond in your love, and in your 

grace, 
No force of deth, ne whan my spirit 

pace. 



" O tendre, o dere, o yonge children 

mine. 
Your wof ul mother wened stedf astly, 
That cruel houndes, or some foul 

vermine 
Had eten you ; but God of his mercy, 
And your benigne fader tendrely 
Hath don you kepe:" and in that 

same stound 
Al sodenly she swapt adoun to 

ground. 

And in her swough so sadly hold- 

eth she 
Her children two, whan she gan hem 

embrace, 
That with gret sleight and gret diffi- 

cultee 
The children from her arm they gan 

arrace ; 
O! many a tere on many a pitous 

face 
Doun ran of hem that stoden her 

beside, 
Unuethe abouten her might they 

abide. 

Walter her gladeth, and her sorwe 

slaketh, 
She riseth up abashed from her 

trance, 
And every wight her joye and feste 

maketh. 
Til she hath caught agen her conte- 

nance. 
Walter hire doth so faithfully ples- 

ance, 
Thet it was deintee for to seen the 

chere 
Betwix hem two, sin they ben met 

in fere. 

Thise ladies, whan that they her 

time sey, 
Han taken her, and into chambre gon, 
And strlpen her out of her rude arrey, 
And in a cloth of gold that brighte 

shone, 
With a coroune of many a riche stone 
Upon her hed, they into hall her 

broughte : 
And ther she was honoured as her 

ought. 

Thus hath this pitous day a blis- 
f ul end ; 
For every man, and woman, doth 
his might 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



403 



This day in mirtli and revel to dis- 
pend, 

Til on the welkin shone the sterres 
bright : 

For more solempne in every mannes 
sight 

This feste was, and greter of cost- 
age, 

Than was the revel of her mariage. 

Fill many a yere in high prosperi- 

tee 
Liven thise two in concord and in 

rest, 
And richely his doughter maried he 
Unto a lord, on of the worthiest 
Of all Itaille, and than in pees and 

rest 
His wives fader in his court he 

kepeth. 
Til that the soule out of Ms body 

crepeth. 

His sone succedeth in his heritage. 
In rest and pees, after his fadres 

day : 
And fortunat was eke in mariage, 
Al put he not his wif in gret assay : 
This world is not so strong, it is no 

nay. 
As it hath ben in olde times yore, 
And herkneth, what this auctour 

saith therfore. 

This story is said, not for that 

wives shuld 
Folwe Grisilde, as in humilitee. 
For it were importable, tho they 

wold; 
But for that every wight in his degree 
Shulde be constant in adversitee, 
As was Grisilde, therfore Petrark 

writeth 
This storie, which with high stile he 

enditeth. 

For sith a woman was so patient 
Unto a mortal man, wel more we 

ought 
Receiven all in gree that God us sent. 
For gret skill is he preve that he 

wrought 
But he ne tempteth no man that he 

bought 
As saith seint Jame, if ye his pistell 

rede ; 
He preveth folk al day, it is no 

drede : 



And suffreth us, as for our exer- 
cise. 

With sharpe scourges of adversitee 

Ful often to be bete in sondry wise; 

Not for to know our will, for certes 
he 

Or we were borne, knew all our 
freeletee ; 

And for our best is all his govern- 
ance; 

Let us than live in vertuous suffrance. 

But one word, lordings, herkeneth, 

ere I go : 
It were ful hard to finden now 

adayes 
In all a toun Grisildes three or two : 
For if that they were put to swiche 

assayes. 
The gold of hem hath now so bad 

alayes 
With bras, that though the coine be 

faire at eye. 
It wolde rather brast atwo than plie. 

For which here, for the wives love 

of Bathe, 
Whos lif and al hire secte God main- 

tene 
In high niaistrie, and elles were it 

scathe, 
I wol with lusty herte fresshe and 

grene, 
Say you a song to gladen you, I 

wene : 
And let us stint of ernestful matere, 
Herkneth my song, that saith in this 

manere. 

Grisilde is ded, and eke her pa- 
tience. 
And both at ones buried in Itaille : 
For which I crie in open audience, 
No wedded man so hardy be to 

assaille 
His wives patience, in trust to find 
Grisildes, for in certain he shal faille. 

O noble wives, ful of high pru- 
dence. 
Let non humilitee your tonges naile : 
Ne let no clerk have cause or dili- 
gence 
To write of you a storie of swiche 

mervaille, 
As of Grisildis patient and kinde. 
Lest Chichevache you swalwe in her 
entraille. 



404 



PARNASSUS. 



that lioldetli no 



Folweth ecco, 

silence, 
But ever answereth at the countre- 

taille: 
Beth not bedaffed for your innocence, 
But sharply taketh on you the gov- 

ernaille : 
Emijrenteth wel this lesson in your 

minde, 
For comun profit, sith it may availle. 

Ye archewives, stondeth ay at 

defence, 
Sin ye be strong, as is a gret camaille, 
Ne suffreth not, that men do you 

offence. 
And sclendre wives, feble as in 

bataille, 
Beth egre as is a tigre yond in Inde ; 
Ay clappeth as a mill, I you coun- 

saille 

Ne drede hem not, doth hem no 

reverence, 
For though thin husbond arm^d be 

in maille. 
The arwes of thy crabbed eloquence 
Shal perce his brest, and eke his 

aventaille : 
In jalousie I rede eke thou him 

binde, 
And thou shalt make him couche as 

doth a quaille. 

If thou be faire, ther folk ben in 

presence 
Shew thou thy visage, and thin ap- 

paraille : 
If thou be foule, be free of thy dis- 

pence. 
To get the f rendes ay do thy travaille : 
Be ay of chere as light as lefe on 

linde, 
And let him care, and wepe, and 

wringe, and waille. 

Chaucek. 



KHYME 



OF THE 
MAY. 



DUCHESS 



To the belfry, one by one, went the 
ringers from the sun, 

Toll slowly. 
And the oldest ringer said, " Ours is 
music for the Dead, 
When the rebecks are all done." 



Six abeles i' the churchyard grow on ■! 
the northside in a row, ■ 

Toll slowly. 
And the shadows of their tops rock 
across the little slopes 
Of the grassy graves below. 

On the south side and the west, a 
small river runs in haste. 

Toll slowly. 
And between the river flowing and 
the fair green trees a-growing 
Do the dead lie at their rest. 

On the east I sate that day, up 
against a willow gray : 

Toll slowly. 
Through the rain of willow-branches, 
I could see the low hill-ranges. 
And the river on its way. 

There I sate beneath the tree, and 
the bell tolled solemnly. 

Toll sloivly. 

While the trees' and river's voices 

flowed between the solemn 

noises, — 

Yet death seemed more loud to 

me. 

There I read this ancient rhyme, 

while the bell did all the time 

Toll sloiuly. 

And the solemn knell fell in with 

the tale of life and sin. 

Like a rhythmic fate siiblime. 

THE KHYME. 

Broad the forest stood (I read) on 
the hills of Linteged — 

Toll slowly. 

And three hundred years had stood 

mute adown each hoary wood. 

Like a full heart having prayed. 

And the little birds sang east, and 
the little birds sang west. 

Toll slowly. 
And but little thought was theirs, of 
the silent antique years, 
In the building of their nest. 

Down the sun dropped large and red, 

on the towers of Linteged, — 

Toll sloxoly. 

Lance and spear upon the height, 

bristling strange in fiery light, 

While the castle stood in shade. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



405 



There, the castle stood up black, 

with the red sun at its back, — 

Toll slowly. 

Like a sullen smouldering pyre, with 

a top that flickers fire, 

When the wind is on its track. 

And five hundred archers tall did 
besiege the castle wall. 

Toll slowly. 
And the castle, seethed in blood, 
fourteen days and nights had 
stood. 
And to-night was near its fall. 

Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three 
months since, a bride did 
come, — Toll slowly. 

One who proudly trod the floors, 
and softly whispered in the 
doors, 
"May good angels bless our 
home." 

Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a 
front of constancies, — 

Toll slowly. 

Oh, a bride of cordial mouth, — 

where the untired smile of 

youth 

Did light outward its own sighs. 

'Twas a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and 
her uncle's ward, the Earl 

Toll sloidy. 
Who betrothed her, twelve years old, 
for the sake of dowry gold. 
To his son Lord Leigh, the 
churl. 

But what time she had made good 

all her years of womanhood. 

Toll slowly. 

Unto both those Lords of Leigh, 

spake she out right sovraniy, 

" My will runneth as my blood. 

" And while this same blood makes 
red this same right hand's 
veins," she said, — 

Toll sloioly, 
'* 'Tis my will as lady free, not to 
wed a Lord of Leigh, 
But Sir Guy of Linteged." 

The old Earl he smiled smooth, then 
he sighed for wilful youth. — 
Toll slowly.. 



"Good my niece, that hand withal 
looketh somewhat soft and 
small. 
For so large a will, in sooth." 

She, too, smiled by that same sign, 
— but her smile was cold and 
fine, — Toll slowly. 

' ' Little hand clasps muckle gold ; or 
it were not worth the hold 
Of thy son, good uncle mine ! " 

Then the young lord jerked his 
breath, and sware thickly in 
his teeth, Toll slowly. 

" He would wed his own betrothed, 
an she loved him, and she 
loathed. 
Let the life come or the death." 

Up she rose with scornful eyes, as 
her father's child might rise. 
Toll slowly. 
"Thy hound's blood, my Lord of 
Leigh, stains thy knightly 
heel," quoth she, 
"And he moans not where he 
lies, 

'But a woman's will dies hard, in 
the hall or on the sward ! — 

Toll slowly. 
By that grave, my lords, which 
made me orphaned girl and 
dowered lady, 
I deny you wife and ward." 

Unto each she bowed her head, and 
swept past with lofty tread. 

Toll slowly. 
Ere the midnight-bell had ceased, in 
the chapel had the priest 
Blessed her, bride of Linteged. 

Fast and fain the bridal train along 
the night-storm rode amain : 
■ Toll slowly. 
Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck 
their hoofs out on the turf. 
In the pauses of the rain. 

Fast and fain the kinsmen's train 
along the storm pursued 
amam — Toll slowly. 

Steed on steed-track, dashing off — 
thickening, doubling hoof on 
hoof. 
In the pauses of the rain. 



406 



PARNASSUS. 



And the bridegroom led the flight 

on his red-roan steed of might, 

Toll slowly. 

And the bride lay on his arm, still 

as if she feared no harm, 

Smiling out into the night. 

" Dost thou fear ? " he said at last ; — 
" Nay ! " she answered him in 
haste, — Toll slowly. 

" Not such death as we could find — 
only life with one behind — 
Kide on fast as fear — ride fast ! " 

Up the mountain wheeled the steed 

— girtli to ground, and fet- 
locks spread, — Toll slowly. 

Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks, 

— down he staggered — down 
the banks. 

To the towers of Linteged. 

High and low the serfs looked out, 
red the flambeaus tossed 
about, — Toll slowly. 

In the courtyard rose the cry — 
" Live the Duchess and Sir 
Guy!" 
But she never heard them shout. 

On the steed she dropped her cheek, 
kissed his mane and kissed his 
neck, — Toll slowly. 

" I had happier died by thee, than 
lived on a Lady Leigh," 
Were the first words she did speak. 

But a three months' joyaunce lay 
'twixt that moment and to- 
day, Toll slowly. 

When five hundred archers tall stand 
beside the castle wall 
To recapture Duchess May. 

And the castle standeth black, with 
the red sun at its back, — 

Toll sloivly. 

And a fortnight's siege is done — 

and, except the Duchess, none 

Can misdoubt the coming wrack. 

Then the captain, young Lord Leigh, 
with his eyes so gray of blee, 
Toll slowly. 
And thin lips that scarcely sheath 
the cold white gnashing of his 
teeth 
Gnashed in smiling, absently, 



Cried aloud — "So goes the day, 
bridegroom fair of Duchess 
May ! — Toll slowly. 

Look thy last upon that sun. If 
thou seest to-morrow's one, 
'Twill be through a foot of clay. 

"Ha, fair bride! Dost hear no 
sound, save that moaning of 
the hound ? — Toll slowly. 

Thou and I have parted troth, — yet 
I keep my vengeance-oath, 
And the other may come round. 

" Ha! thy will is brave to dare, and 

thy new love past compare, — 

Toll slowly. 

Yet thine old love's falchion brave 

is as strong a thing to have, 

As the will of lady fair, 

"Peck on blindly, netted dove! — if 
a wife's name thee behove. 

Toll slowly. 
Thou slialt wear the same to-mor- 
row, ere the grave has hid the 
sorrow 
Of thy last ill-mated love. 

"O'er his fixed and silent mouth, 

thou and I will call back troth, 

Toll slowly. 

He shall altar be and priest, — and 

he will not cry at least 

' I forbid you, — I am loath ! ' 

" I will wring my fingers pale in the 
gauntlet of my mail. 

Toll slowly. 
' Little hand and muckle gold ' close 
shall lie within my hold. 
As the sword did, to prevail." 

Oh the little birds sang east, and the 
little birds sang west, 

Toll slowly. 
Oh, and laughed the Duchess May, 
and her soul did put away 
All his boasting, for a jest. 

In her chamber did she sit, laughing 
low to think of it, — 

Toll slowly. 
" Tower is strong and will is free — 
thou canst boast, my Lord of 
Leigh, 
But thou boasteth little wit." 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



407 



In her tire-glass gazed she, and she 
bhished right womanly. 

Toll sloicly. 

She blushed half from her disdain — 

half, her beauty was so plain, 

— " Oath for oath, my Lord of 

Leigh!" 

Straight she called her maidens in — 
" Since ye gave me blame here- 
in, Toll slowly. 

That a bridal such as mine should 
lack gauds to make it fine. 
Come and shrive me from that 
sin. 

" It is three months gone to-day, 

since I gave mine hand away. 

Toll slowly. 

Bring the gold and bring the gem, we 

will keep bride-state in them. 

While we keep the foe at bay. 

"On your arms I loose my hair; — 
comb it smooth and crown it 
fair. Toll slowly. 

I would look in purple pall from this 
lattice down the wall. 
And throw scorn to one that's 
there!" 

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the 
little birds sang west. 

Toll slowly. 
On the tower the castle's lord leant 
in silence on his sword, 
With an anguish in his breast. 

With a spirit-laden weight, did he 
lean down passionate. 

Toll slowly. 
They have almost sapped the wall, — 
they will enter there withal, 
With no knocking at the gate. 

Then the sword he leant upon, 
shivered — snapped upon the 
stone, — Toll slowly. 

''Sword," he thought, with inward 
laugh, " ill thou servest for a 
staff 
Wlien thy nobler use is done ! 

" Sword, thy nobler use is done! — 
tower is lost, and shame be- 
gun ; Toll sloioly. 

If we met them in the breach, hilt to 
hilt, or speech to speech. 
We should die there, each for one. 



"If we met them at the wall, we 
should singly, vainly fall, — 
Toll slowbj. 
But if / die here alone, — then I die, 
who am but one. 
And die nobly for them all. 

" Five true friends lie for my sake, 

in the moat and in the brake, — 

Toll slovjly. 

Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a 

black wound in the breast. 

And not one of these will wake. 

"So no more of this shall be! — 
heart-blood weighs too heavi- 
ly — Toll slowly. 

And I could not sleep in grave, with 
the faithful and the brave 
Heaped around and over me. 

" Since young Clare a mother hath, 
and young Ralph a plighted 
faith. Toll slowly. 

Since my pale young sister's cheeks 
blush like rose when Eonald 
speaks. 
Albeit never a word she saith — 

"These shall never die forme — life- 
blood falls too heavily : 

Toll slowly. 
And if I die here apart, — o'er my 
dead and silent heart 
They shall pass out safe and free. 

" When the foe hath heard it said — 
'Death holds Guy of Linte- 
ged,' — Toll sloioly. 

That new corse new peace shall 
bring; and a blessed, blessed 
thing. 
Shall the stone be at its head. 

" Then my friends shall pass out free, 

and shall bear my memory, — 

Toll slowly. 

Then my foes shall sleek their pride, 

soothing fair my widowed 

bride 

Whose sole sin was love of me. 

" With their words all smooth and 
sweet, they will front her and 
entreat Toll slowly. 

And their purple pall will spread 
underneath her fainting head 
While her tears drop over it. 



408 



PARNASSUS. 



" She will weep her woman's tears, 
she will pray her woman's 
prayers, — Toll slowly. 

But her heart is young in pain, and 
her hopes will spring again 
By the suntime of her years. 

"Ah, sweet May! — ah, sweetest 
grief ! — once I vowed thee my 
belief. Toll sloivly. 

That thy name expressed thy sweet- 
ness, — May of poets, in com- 
pleteness ! 
Now my May-day seemeth brief." 

All these silent thoughts did swim 
o'er his eyes grown strange 
and dim, — T'oll slowly. 

Till his true men in the place, wished 
they stood tliere face to face 
With the foe instead of him. ' 

" One last oath, my friends that wear 
faithful hearts to do and 
dare ! — Toll sloivly. 

Tower must fall, and bride be lost ! 
— swear me service worth the 
cost," 

— Bold they stood around to 
swear. 

"Each man clasp my hand and swear, 

by the deed we failed in there. 

Toll slowly. 

Not for vengeance, not for right, will 
ye strike one blow to-night ! " 

— Pale they stood around — to 
swear. 

" One last boon, young Ealph and 
Clare! faithful hearts to do 
and dare ! Toll slowly. 

Bring that steed up from his stall, 
which she kissed before you 
all, 
Guide him up the turret-stair. 

" Ye shall harness him aright, and 
lead upward to this height ! 

Toll slowly. 
Once in love and twice in war, hath 
he borne me strong and far. 
He shall bear me far to-night." 

Then his men looked to and fro, 
when they heard him speaking 
so. Toll slowly. 



— '"Las! the noble heart," they 
thought, — " he in sooth is 
grief-distraught. 
Would we stood here with the 
foe!" 

But a fire flashed from his eye, 'tw^ixt 
their thought and their re- 
ply, — Toll slowly. 

"Have ye so much time to waste! 
We who ride here, must ride 
fast. 
As we wish our foes to fly." 

They have fetched the steed with 
care, in the harness he did 
wear. Toll slowly. 

Past the court and through the 
doors, across the rushes of the 
floors ; 
But they goad him up the stair. 

Then from out her bower chambere, 

did the Duchess May repair. 

Toll slowly. 

"Tell me now what is your need," 

said the lady, " of this steed. 

That ye goad him up the stair ? " 

Calm she stood ; unbodkined through, 
fell her dark hair to her 
shoe, — Toll slowly. 

And tlie smile upon her face, ere she 
left the tiring-glass. 
Had not time enough to go. 

" Get thee back, sweet Duchess May ! 

hope is gone like yesterday, — 

Toll slowly. 

One half-hour completes the breach ; 

and thy lord grows wild of 

speech. 

Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray. 

" In the east tower, high'st of all, — 
loud he cries for steed from 
stall. Toll slotvly. 

He would ride as far," quoth he, " as 
for love and victory. 
Though he rides the castle wall. 

" And we fetch the steed from stall, 
up where never a hoof did 
fall. — Toll slowly. 

Wifely prayer meets deathly need! 
may the sweet Heavens hear 
thee plead. 
If he rides the castle-wall." 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



409 



Low she dropped her head, and lower, 
till her hair coiled on the 
floor, — Toll sloiobj. 

And tear after tear yon heard fall 
distinct as any word 
Which you might be listening for. 

" Get thee in, thou soft ladie ! — here 
is never a place for thee ! — 

Toll slowhj. 
Braid thy hair and clasp thy gown, 
that thy beauty in its moan 
May find grace with Leigh of 
Leigh." 

Slie stood up in bitter case, with a 
pale yet stately face. 

Toll sloivly. 

Like a statue thunderstruck, which, 

though quivering, seems to 

look 

Riglit against the thunder-place. 

And her foot trod in, with pride, 
her own tears i' the stone be- 
side, — Toll slowly. 

" Go to, faithful friends, go to! — 
Judge no more what ladies 
do,— 
No, nor how their lords may 
ride!" 

Then the good steed's rein she took, 
and his neck did kiss and 
stroke : Toll slowly. 

Soft he neighed to answer her ; and 
then followed up the stair. 
For the love of her sweet look. 

Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up 
the narrow stair around, — 

Toll slowly. 
Oh, and closely speeding, step by 
step beside her treading. 
Did he follow, meek as hound. 

On the east tower, high'st of all, — 
there, where never a hoof did 
fall, — Toll slowly. 

Out they swept, a vision steady, — 
noble steed and lovely lady, 
Calm as if in bower or stall ! 

Down she knelt at her lord's knee, 

and she looked up silently, — 

Toll slowly. 

And he kissed her twice and thrice, 

for that look within her eyes 

Which he could not bear to see. 



Quoth he, " Get thee from this strife, 
— and the sweet saints bless 
thy life ! — Toll sloivly. 

In this hour, I stand in need of my 
noble red-roan steed — 
But no more of my noble wife." 

Quoth she, "Meekly have I done all 
thy biddings under sun : 

Toll slowly. 
But by all my womanhood, — which 
is proved so true and good, 
I will never do this one. 

"Now by womanhood's degree, and 
by wifehood's verity, 

Toll slowly. 
In this hour if thou hast need of thy 
noble red-roan steed. 
Thou hast also need of me. 

"By this golden ring ye see on this 
lifted hand pardie, 

Toll slowly. 
If this hour, on castle-wall, can be 
room for steed from stall, 
Shall be also room for me. 

" So the sweet saints with me be" 
(did she utter solemnly,) 

Toll slowly. 
"If a man, this eventide, on this 
castle-wall will ride, 
He shall ride the same with me." 

Oh, he sprang up in the selle, and he 
laughed out bitter well, — 

Toll slowly. 
"Wouldst thou ride among the 
leaves, as we used on other 
eves, 
To hear chime a vesper-bell ? " 

She clang closer to his knee — "Ay, 
beneath the cypress-tree ! — 

Toll sloioly. 
Mock me not ; for otherwhere than 
along the greenwood fair, 
Have I ridden fast with thee ! 

"Fast I rode with new-made vows, 
from my angry kinsman's 
house ! ' Toll slowly. 

What! and wotild you men should 
reck that I dared more for 
love's sake 
As a bride than as a spouse ? 



410 



PARNASSUS. 



" What, and would you it should fall, 
as a proverb, before all, 

Toll slowly. 
That a bride may keep your side 
while through castlegate you 
ride, 
Yet eschew the castle-wall? " 

Ho ! the breach yawns into ruin, and 

roars up against her suing, — 

Toll slowly. 

With the inarticulate din, and the 

dreadful falling in — 

Shrieks of doing and undoing ! 

Twice he wrung her hands in twain ; 

but the small hands closed 

again. Toll slowly. 

Back he reined the steed — back, 

back ! but she trailed along his 

track 
With a frantic clasp and strain! 

Evermore the foemen pour through 
the crash of window and 
door, — Toll slowly. 

And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, 
and the shrieks of " kill ! " and 
"flee!" 
Strike up clear amid the roar. 

Thrice he wrung her hands in twain, 

— but they closed and clung 
again, — Toll slowly. 

Wild she clung, as one, withstood, 
clasps a Christ upon the rood. 
In a spasm of deathly pain. 

She clung wild and she clung mute, 

— with her shuddering lips 
half-shut. Toll slowly. 

Her head fallen as half in swound, 

— hair and knee swept on the 
ground. 

She clung wild to stirrup and 
foot. 

Back he reined his steed back-thrown 
on the slippery coping-stone. 
Toll slowly. 
Back the iron hoofs did grind on the 
battlement behind, 
Wlience a hundred feet went 
down. 

And his heel did press and goad on 
the quivering flank bestrode. 
Toll slowly. 



" Friends and brothers, save my 
wife ! — Pardon, sweet, in 
change for life, — 
But I ride alone to God." 

Straight as if the Holy name had up- 
breathed her like a flame. 

Toll slowly. 
She upsprang, she rose upright, -^ in 
his selle she sat in sight ; 
By her love she overcame. 

And her head was on his breast, 
where she smiled as one at 
rest, — Toll slowly. 

"Ring," she cried, "O vesper-bell, 
in the beech-wood's old cha- 
pelle ! 
But the passing-bell rings best," 

They have caught out at the rein, 
which Sir Guy threw loose — 
in vain. Toll slowly. 

For the horse in stark despair, with 
his front hoofs poised in air. 
On the last verge rears amain. 

Now he hangs, he rocks between — 
and his nostrils curdle in, — 
Toll slowly. 
And he shivers head and hoof — and 
the flakes of foam fall off ; 
And his face grows fierce and 
thin ! 

And a look of human woe from his 
staring eyes did go. 

Toll sloivly. 
And a sharp cry uttered he, in a 
foretold agony 
Of the headlong death below, — 

And "Ring, ring, — thou passing- 
bell," still she cried, i' the 
old chapelle ! — 

Toll slowly. 
Then back-toppling, crushing back, 
a dead weight flung out to 
wrack. 
Horse and riders overfell ! 



Oh, the little birds sang east, and 
the little birds sang west, — 
Toll slowly. 
And I read this ancient Rhyme in 
the churchyard, while the 
chime. 
Slowly tolled for one at rest. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



4U 



The abeles moved in the sun, and 
the river smooth did run, 

Toll doxvbj. 

And the ancient Rhyme rang strange, 

witli its passion and its change. 

Here, where all done lay undone. 

And beneath a willow tree, I a little 
grave did see, 

Toll slowly. 
Where was graved, — Here unde- 

FILED, LIETH MAUD, A 
TIinEE-YEAR CHILD, 

Eighteen uundked fobty- 

THREE. 

Then, O Spirits — did I say — ye 
who rode so fast that day, — 
Toll slowly. 
Did star-wheels and angel-wings, 
with their holy winnowings. 
Keep beside you all the way ? 

Though in passion ye would dash, 

with a blind and heavy crash. 

Toll slowly. 

Up against the thick-bossed shield 

of God's judgment in the 

field, — 

Though your heart and brain 

were rash, — 

Now, your will is all unwilled — now 
your pulses are all stilled, — 
Toll sloioly. 
Now, ye lie as meek and mild ( where- 
solaid) as Maud the child, 
Whose small grave was lately 
filled. 

Beating heart and burning brow, ye 
are very patient now, 

Toll slowly. 

And the children might be bold to 

pluck the kingcups from your 

mould 

Ere a month had let them grow. 

And you let the goldfinch sing in the 
alder near in spring, 

Toll slowly 
Let her build her nest and sit all the 
three weeks out on it, 
Murmuring not at any thing. 

In your patience ye are strong ; cold 
and heat ye take not wrong : 
Toll slowly. 



When the trumpet of the angel blows 
eternity's evangel. 
Time will seem to you not long. 

Oh, the little birds sang east, and 
the little birds sang west. 

Toll slowly. 
And I said in underbreath, — all our 
life is mixed with death, 
And who knoweth which is 
best? 

Oh, the little birds sang east,, and 
the little birds sang west. 

Toll slowly. 
And I smiled to think God's great- 
ness flowed around our incom- 
pleteness, — 
Round our restlessness, his rest. 
E. B. Browning. 



FAIR HELEN. 

I WISH I were where Helen lies : 
Night andvday on me she cries ; 
O that I were where Helen lies 
On fair Kirconnell lea ! 

Curst be the heart that thought the 

thought. 
And curst the hand that fired the 

shot, 
Wlien in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
And died to succor me ! 

think na but my heart was sair 
When my love dropt down and spake 

nae mair ! 

1 laid her down wi' nieikle care 

On fair Kirconnell lea ; 

As I went down to the water-side. 
None but my foe to be my gviide, 
None but my foe to be my guide, 
On fair Kirconnell lea ; 

I lighted doun my sword to draw, 
I hacked him in pieces sma', 
I hacked him in pieces sma'. 

For her sake that died for me. 

O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
I'll make a garland of thy hair 
Shall bind my heart forevermair 
Until the day I die. 



412 



PARNASSUS. 



O that I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise, 
Says, ' Haste and come to me ! ' 

O Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! 
If I were with thee, I were blest, 
Where thou lies low and takes thy 
rest 
On fair Kirconnell lea. 

Scott. 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bon- 
nie bride ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome 
marrow ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie 
bride, 
And think nae mair of the Braes 
of Yarrow." 

" Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie 
bride. 
Where gat ye that winsome mar- 
row?" 
" I gat her where I daurna weel be 
seen, 
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

"Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, 
bonnie bride. 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome 
marrow ! 
Nor let thy heart lament to leave 
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of 
Yarrow." 

"Why does she weep, thy bonnie, 
bonnie bride? 
Wliy does she weep, thy winsome 
marrow ? 
And why daur ye nae mair weel be 
seen 
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of 
Yarrow?" 

" Lang maun she weep, lang maun 
she, maun she weep — 
Lang maun she weep wi' dule and 
sorrow ; 
(^.nd lang maun I nae mair weel be 
seen 
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 



"For she has tint her lover, lover 
dear. 
Her lover dear, the cause of sor- 
row; 
And I hae slain the comeliest swain 
That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes 
of Yarrow. 

"Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, 
Yarrow, red? 
Why on thy braes heard the voice 
of sorrow? 
And why yon melancholious weeds 
Hung on the bonnie birks of Yar- 
row? 

"What's yonder floats on the rueful, 
rueful flood ? 
What's yonder floats? O, dule and 
sorrow ! 
'Tis he, the comely swain I slew 
Upon the dulefu' Braes of Yar- 
row. 

"Wash, O wash his wounds, his 
wounds in tears. 
His wounds in tears o' dule and 
sorrow ; 
And wrap his limbs in mourning 
weeds, 
And lay him on the banks of Yar- 
row. 

" Then build, then build, ye sisters, 
sisters sad, 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sor- 
row; 
And weep around, in waeful wise. 
His hapless fate on the Braes of 
Yarrow ! 

" Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, use- 
less shield, 
The arm that wrought the deed of 
sorrow. 
The fatal spear that pierced his 
breast. 
His comely breast, on the Braes of 
Yarrow ! 

" Did I not warn thee not to, not to 
love. 
And warn from fight ? But, to my 
sorrow. 
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou 
met'st, 
Thou met'st, and fell on the 
Braes of Yarrow. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



413 



"Sweet smell the birk; green grows, 
green grows the grass ; 
Yellow on Yarrow's braes the 
gowan ; 
Fair hangs the apple f rae the rock ; 
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan ! 

"Flows Yarrow sweet? As sweet, 
as sweet flows Tweed ; 
As green its grass; its gowan as 
yellow; 
As sweet smells on its braes the 
birk; 
The apple frae its rock as mellow ! 

" Fair was thy love ! fair, fair indeed 
thy love! 
In flowery bands thou didst him 
fetter ; 
Though he was fair, and well-beloved 
again, 
Than I he never loved thee better. 

"Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, 
bonnie bride ! 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome 
marrow ! 
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks 
of Tweed 
And think nae mair on the Braes 
of Yarrow." 

" How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie 
bride? 
How can I busk a winsome mar- 
row? 
How love him on the banks of 
Tweed, 
That slew my love on the Braes of 
Yarrow ? 

" O Yarrow fields, may never, never 
rain, 
Nor dew, thy tender blossoms 
cover ! 
For there was basely slain my love, 
My love, as he had not been a 
lover ! 

'' The boy put on his robes, his robes 
of green. 
His purple vest, — 'twas my ain 
sewing ; 
Ah, wretched me! I little, little 
kenned 
He was, in these, to meet his ruin. 



" The boy took out his milk-white, 
milk-white steed. 
Unmindful of my dule and sorrow; 
But ere the too fa' of the night. 
He lay a corpse on the banks of 
Yarrow ! 

" Much I rejoiced that waefu', wae- 
fu' day; 
I sang, my voice the woods return- 
ing; 
But lang ere night the spear was 
flown. 
That slew my love, and left me 
mourning. 

" What can my barbarous, barbarous 
father do. 
But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 
My lover's blood is on thy spear, — 
How canst thou, barbarous man, 
then woo me ? 

" My happy sisters may be, may be 
proud ; 

With cruel and ungentle scoffin. 
May bid me seek, on Yarrow Braes, 

My lover nailed in his coffin. 

" My brother Douglas may upbraid, 
And strive, with threatening 
words, to move me ; 
My lover's blood is on thy spear, — 
How can thou ever bid me love 
thee? 

" Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed 
of love! 

With bridal-sheets my body cover ! 
Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door ! 

Let in the expected husband-lover ! 

" But who the expected husband, 
husband is ? 
His hands, methinks, are bathed 
in slaughter ! 
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon 
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding 
after? 

" Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him 

down; 

Oh lay his cold head on my pillow! 

Take off, take off these bridal weeds, 

And crown my careful head with 

willow. 



414 



PAENASSUS. 



"Pale though thou art, yet best, yet 
best beloved, 
Oh could my warmth to life restore 
thee ! 
Yet lie all night within my arms — 
No youth lay ever there before 
thee! 

" Pale, pale indeed, O lovely, lovely 
youth ! 
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter. 
And lie all night within my arms. 
No youth shall ever lie there 
after!" 

"Keturn, return, O mournful, 

mournful bride ! 

Return, and dry thy useless sori'ow ! 

Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs ; 

He lies a corpse on the Braes of 

Yarrow." 

William Hamilton. 



ROSABELLE. 

Oh listen, listen, ladies gay! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay. 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 

"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant 
crew, 

And, gentle lady, deign to stay! 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

" The blackening wave is edged with 
white ; 
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly : 
The fishers have heard the Water- 
Sprite, 
Whose screams forebode that 
wreck is nigh. 

" Last night the gifted Seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round lady 

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravens- 
heuch ; 
Why cross the gloomy firth to- 
day?" 

"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's 

heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 
But that my lady-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 



" 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
And Lindesay at the ring rides 
well, 

But that my sire the wine will chide 
If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." 

O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
A wondrous blaze was seen to 
gleam ; 
'Twas broader than the watch-fire's 
light. 
And redder than the bright moon- 
beam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock. 

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 
'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of 
oak, 
And seen from caverned Haw- 
thornden. 

Seemed all on fire that chapel proud 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined 
lie. 

Each baron, for a sable shroud. 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high. 
Blazed every rose-carved buttress 
fair, — 

So still they blaze when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons 
bold 
Lie buried within that proud 
chapelle ; 
Each one the holy vault doth hold. 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! 

And each Saint Clair was buried 
there 
With candle, with book, and with 
knell ; 
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild 
winds sung 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

Scott. 



TELLING THE BEES. 

Here is the place ; right over the hill 

Runs the path I took ; 
You can see the gap in the old wall 
still. 
And the stepping-stones in the 
shallow brook. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



415 



There is the house, with the gate 
red-barred, 
And the poplars tall ; 
And the barn's brown length, and 
the cattle-yard. 
And the white horns tossing above 
the wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in 
the sun ; 
And down by the brink 
Of the brook are her poor flowers, 
weed-o'errun, 
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes. 

Heavy and slow ; 
And the same rose blows, and the 
same sun glows, 
And the same brook sings of a 
year ago. 

There's the same sweet clover-smell 
in the breeze ; 
And the June sun warm 
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees. 
Setting, as then, over Fernside 
farm, 

I mind me how with a lover's care 

From my Sunday coat 
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed 
my hair. 
And cooled at the brookside my 
brow and throat. 

Since we parted, a month had 
passed, — 
To love, a year ; 
Down through the beeches I looked 
at last 
On the little red gate and the 
well-sweep near. 

I can see it all now, — the slantwise 
rain 
Of light through the leaves. 
The sundown's blaze on her window- 
pane. 
The bloom of her roses under the 



Just the same as a month before, — 

The house and the trees, 
The barn's brown gable, the vine by 
the door, — 
Nothing changed but the hive of 
bees. 



Before them, under the garden wall, 

Forward and back. 
Went drearily singing the chore-girl 
small, 
Draping each hive with a shred 
of black. 

Trembling, I listened : the summer 
sun 
Had the chill of snow ; 
For I knew she was telling the bees 
of one 
Gone on the journey we all must 
go! 

Then I said to myself, "My Mary 
weeps 
For the dead to-day : 
Haply her blind old graudsire sleeps 
The fret and the pain of his age 
away." 

But her dog whined low; on the 
doorway sill. 
With his cane to his chin, 
The old man sat ; and the chore-girl 
still 
Sung to the bees stealing out and 
in. 

And the song she was singing ever 
since 
In my ear sounds on : — 
"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not 
hence ! 
Mistress Mary is dead and gone ! " 
Whittier. 



BRUCE AND THE ABBOT. 

The Abbot on the threshold stood. 
And in his hand the holy rood : 
Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal. 
Proud Lorn first answered the ap- 
peal ; — 
" Thou comest, O holy man. 
True sons of blessed church to greet. 
But little deeming here to meet 
A wretch, beneath the ban 
Of Pope and Church, for murder 

done 
Even on the sacred altar-stone ! — 
Well mayst thou wonder we should 

know 
Such miscreant here, nor lay him 
low, 



416 



PARNASSUS. 



Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce, 
With excommunicated Bruce ! 
Yet will I grant to end debate. 
Thy sainted voice decide his fate." 

The Abbot seemed with eye severe 
The hardy chieftain's speech to hear ; 
Then on King Robert turned the 

Monk, — 
But twice his courage came and 

sunk. 
Confronted with the hero's look; 
Twice fell his eye, his accents shook ; 
Like man by prodigy amazed. 
Upon the King the Abbot gazed ; 
Then o'er his pallid features glance 
Convulsions of ecstatic trance ; 
His breathing came more thick and 

fast, 
And from his pale blue eyes were 

cast 
Strange rays of wild and wandering 

light; 
Uprise his locks of silver white. 
Flushed is his brow ; through every 

vein 
In azure tide the currents strain, 
And undistinguished accents broke 
The awful silence ere lie spoke. 

"De Bruce! I rose with purpose 

dread 
To speak my curse upon thy head, 
And give thee as an outcast o'er 
To him who burns to shed thy 

gore; — 
But, like the Midianite of old. 
Who stood on Zophim, heaven-con- 
trolled, 
I feel within mine aged breast 
A power that will not be repressed. 
It prompts my voice, it swells my 

veins. 
It burns, it maddens, it constrains 1 — 
De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow 
Hath at God's altar slain tliy foe : 
O'ermastered yet byhigli behest, 
I bless thee, and thou shalt be 

blessed!" 
He spoke, and o'er the astonished 

throng 
Was silence, awful, deep, and long. 

Again that light has fired his eye, 
Again his form swells bold and high, 
The broken voice of age is gone, 
'Tis vigorous manhood's lofty 
tone : — 



" Thrice vanquished on the battle 

plain, — 
Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or 

ta'en, — 
A hunted wanderer on the wild, 
On foreign shores a man exiled. 
Disowned, deserted, and distressed, — 
I bless tliee, and thou shalt be 

blessed ! 
Blessed in the hall and in the field, 
Under tlie mantle as tlie shield. 
Avenger of thy country's shame. 
Restorer of her injured fame. 
Blessed in thy sceptre and thy 

sword, — 
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful 

Lord, 
Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, 
WTiat lengthened honors wait thy 

name ! 
In distant ages, sire to son 
Shall tell thy tale of freedom won. 
And teach his infants, in tlie use 
Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce. 
Go, then, triumphant! sweep along 
Thy course, the theme of many a 

song! 
The Power, whose dictates swell my 

breast. 
Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt 

be blessed! " 

Scott. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

The king was on his throne, 

The satraps thronged the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold. 

In Judah deemed divine, — 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless heathen's wine ! 

In that same hour and hall, 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran. 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook, 
And bade no more rejoice : 

All bloodless waxed his look, 
And tremulous his voice. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



417 



" Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear, 

Which mar our royal mirth." 

Chaideea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood, 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw, — but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, — 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright. 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

" Belshazzar's grave is made. 

His kingdom passed away. 
He in the balance weighed, 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shi'oud, his robe of state ; 

His canopy, the stone ; 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throne ! " 
I Bybon. 



SIR PAVON AND ST. PAVON. 



St. Maek's hushed abbey heard, 
Through prayers, a roar and din ; 

A brawling voice did shout, 
" Knave shaveling, let me in ! " 

The cagfed porter peeped. 

All fluttering, through the grate. 
Like birds that hear a mew. 

A knight was at the gate. 

His left hand reined his steed, 
Still smoking from the ford ; 

flis crimson right, that dangled, 
clutched 
Half of his broken sword. 

His broken plume flapped low ; 

His charger's mane with mud 
Was clogged ; he wavered in his seat, 

His mail dropped drops of blood. 
27 



" Who cometh in such haste?" 
" Sir Pavon, late, I hight, 

Of all the land around 
The stanchest, mightiest knight. 

" My foes — they dared not face — 

Beset me at my back 
In ambush. Fast and hard 

They follow on my track. 

" Now wilt thou let me in. 
Or shall I burst the door?" 

The grating bolts ground back ; the 
knight 
Lay swooning in his gore. 

As children, half afraid, 
Draw near a crushed wasp. 

Look, touch, and twitch away 
Their hands, then lightly grasp, — 

Him to their spital soon 
The summoned brethren bore, 

And searched his wounds. He woke, 
And roundly cursed and swore. 

The younger friar stopped his ears ; 

The elder chid. He flung 
His gummy plasters at his mouth, 

And bade him hold his tongue. 

But, faint and weak, when, left 

Upon his couch alone, 
He viewed the valley, framed with- 
in 

His window's carven stone. 

He learned anew to weep. 

All as he lay along. 
To see the smoke-wreaths from his 
towers 

Climb up the clouds among. 

The abbot came to bring 

A balsam to his guest. 
On soft feet tutored long 

To break no sufferer's rest, 

And heard his sobbing heart 
Drink deep in draughts of woe ; 

Then " Benedicite, my son," 
He breathed, in murmurs low. 

Right sharply turned the knight 
Upon the unwelcome spy ; 

But changed his shaggy face, as 
when, 
Down through a stormy sky, 



418 



PARNASSUS. 



The quiet autumn sun 

Looks on a landscape grim. 

He crossed liimself before tlie priest, 
And siDeechless gazed on him. 

His brow was large and grand, 

And meet for governing; 
The beauty of his holiness 

Did crown him like a king. 

His mien was high, yet mild ; 

His deep and reverent eye 
Seemed o'er a peaceful past to 
gaze, — 

A blest futurity. 

His stainless earthy shell 
Was worn so pure and thin. 

That through the callow angel 
showed, 
Half-hatched that stirred within. 

The cloisters when he paced 
At eve, the brethren said, 

E'en then a shimmering halo dawned 
Around his saintly head. 

If forth he went, the street 

Became a hallowed aisle. 
Men knelt ; and children ran to seek 

The blessing of his smile ; 

And mothers on each side came out, 

And stood at every door. 
And held their babies up, and put 

The weanlings forth before. 

As pure white lambs unto 
Men sickening unto death 

Their sweet infectious health give 
out. 
And heal them with their breath, 

His white and thriving soul. 

In heavenly pastures fed. 
Still somewhat of its innocence 

On all around him shed. 

Sir Pavon's scarce-stanched wounds 
He bound with fearless skill. 

Who lay and watched him, meek 
and mute. 
And let him work his will, 

Willie in his fevered brain 
Thus mused his fancy quaint :_ 

" My grandam told me once of saints, 
And this is, sure, a saint ! 



" (I was a new-breeched boy, 

And sat upon her knee. 
Less mindful of the story than 

Of cates she gave to me. ) 

" But then I thought a flood 
Came down to drown them all, 

And that they only now in stone 
Stood on the minster wall, 

" Or painted in the glass 

Upon the window high. 
Where, swelled with spring-tides, 
breaks the sea 

Beneath, and leaves them dry, 

" Quite out of danger's way, 
ikjid breathed and walked no more 

Upon the muddy earth, to do 
The deeds they did of yore, 

" When still the sick were healed 
Where e'en their shadows fell; 

But here is one that's living yet. 
And he shall make me well." 

The patient priest benign 
His watch beside him kept. 

Until he dropped his burning lids, 
And like an infant slept. 



Some weary weeks were spent 

In tossing and in pain, 
Before the knight's huge frame was 
braced 

With strength and steel again. 

(He had his armor brought 

The day he left his bed. 
And fitted on by novice hands, 

" To prop him up," he said.) 

Soon jangling then he stamped. 

Amazed with all he saw. 
Through cell and through refectory, 

With little grace or awe. 

Unbidden at the board 

He sat, a mouthful took, 
And shot it spattering through his 
beard. 

Sprang up, and cursed the cook. 

If some bowed friar passed by. 
He cliucked him 'neath the chin- 

And cried, "What cheer?" ov^ 
*' Dost thou find 
That hair-cloth pricks the skin J*"' 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



419 



Or if he came on one 

In meditation meet, 
Or penance, mute, he kindly vowed 

To cheer his lone retreat. 

"Poor palsied sire," he cried, 

" How fares thy stiffened tongue? 

Let mine suffice for both," — and 
trolled 
A lusty drinking-song. 

One softly in his cell 

Did scourge his meagre hide, 
When Pavon on his rounds came in, 

And stood, well pleased, beside : 

" What, man ! Lay on ! lay on ! 

Nay, hast thou tired thine arm ? 
Give me thy hempen bunch of 
cords, 

And I will make thee warm." 

With doubtful thanks agreed 

The monk. Him Pavon whipped 

Right deftly, through the cloister, 
till 
For aid he cried and skipped. 

In brief, within the house 

Of holy Qviiet, all 
Where'er Sir Pavon went or came 

Was outcry, noise, and brawl ; 

Until the abbot said, 

"Anon this coil must cease. 
To-morrow is the Truce of God ; 

Then let him go in peace. 

" But call him hither first. 
To render thanks to-night 

For life restored ; for now we go 
To do our vesper rite." 

With tamed mien abashed, 

The wild, unruly guest 
His best obeyed, and mutely moved 

Beside the solemn priest. 

Unto a noiseless pace 
He strove to curb his stride. 

And blushed to hear his jack-boots' 
clang 
Amid the sandals' slide. 

The censer waved around 
Its misty, sweet perfume, 

A-s over him the minster great 
Came witli its awful gloom. 



Tlirough shadowy aisle, 'neath 
vaulted roof. 

His faltering steps were led ; 
Beside him was the living saint. 

Beneath, the sainted dead. 

Bespread with nun-wrought tapestry, 

The holy altar stood ; 
Above it, carved by martyr hands. 

Arose tlie Holy Rood ; 

Burned roiuid it, tipped with tongues 
of flame, 

Vowed candles white and tall ; 
And frosted cup and patine, clear. 

In silver, painted all. 

The prisoned giant Music in 
The rumbling organ rolled. 

And roared sweet thunders up to 
heaven. 
Through all its pipes of gold. 

He started. 'Mid the prostrate throng 
Upright, he lieard the hymn 

With fallen chin and lifted eye 
That searched the arches dim ; 

For in the lurking echoes there 
Responding, tone and word, 

A choir of answering seraphim 
Above he deemed he heard. 

They saw him thus -when all was done, 
Still I'apt and pale as death ; 

So passed he through the banging 
gate. 
Then drew a long-drawn breath, 

As to the priest he turned : 

" I cannot ' go in peace,' 
Nor find elsewhere a man like thee, 

Nor hear such strains as these!" 

" This is no place for knights." 
" Then I a monk will be." * 

"Kneel down upon thy knee, fair son, 
And tell thy sins to me." 

* "Henry de Joveuse, Comte du Bou- 
chage, Fr^re puiiie du Due de Joyeuse. tu6 
h Coutras. ' Un jour qu'il passoit k Paris 
h quatre heures du matin, prt-s du Convent 
des Capucins, apr^s avoir pass6 la nuit en 
d^bauche. il s'imagina que les Anges 
chantoient Matines dans le Couvent. 
Frappe de cette idee, il se fit Capucin, sous 
le noni de Frere-Ange.' . . . Cette anecdote 
est tir6e des Notes sur I'Henriade." — Me- 
moires de Sully, Livre Dixieme, Note 67. 



420 



PARNASSUS. 



" My knee is stiff with steel, 
And will not bend it well, 

' My sins ! ' A peerless knight like me, 
What should he have to tell ? 

" I never turned in fight 
Till treason wrought my harm, 

Nor then, before my shattered sword 
Weighed down my shattered arm, 

" I never broke mine oath, 

Forgot my friend or foe. 
Nor left a benefit unpaid 

With weal, or wrong with woe. 

" ' Keep thee from me ! ' * I said, 
Still, ere my blows began, 

Nor gashed mine unarmed enemy, t 
Nor smote a fellfed man, 

"Observing every rule 

Of generous chivalry ; 
And maid and matron ever found 

A champion leal in me. 

" What gallantly I won 

In war, I did not hoard, 
But spent as gallantly in peace. 

With neighbors round my board." 

" Thy neighbors, son ? The serfs 
For miles who tilled thy ground ?" 

" Tush, father, nay ! The high-bom 
knights 
For many a league around. 

" They were my brethren sworn. 

In battle and in sport. 
'Twere wondrous shame, should one 
like me 

With beggar kernes consort ! 

" Clean have I made my shrift," 
He said ; and so he ceased. 

And bore a blithe and guileless cheer, 
That sore perplexed the priest. 

With words both soft and keen. 
He searched his breast within. 

Still said he, "So I sinned not," 
Or, " That is, sure, no sin." 

* The regular form of announcement 
that a single combat had begun between 
knights. 

t " To smyte a wounded man that may 
not stonde, God deffende nie from such a 
shame." " Wyt thou well, Syr Gawayn, I 
wyl neuer smyte a fellyd knight." — Prose 
Romance of King Arthur. 



The abbot beat his breast : 

"Alack, the man is lost! 
Erewhile he must have grieved away 

The warning Holy Ghost ! 

"His guardian angel he 

Hath scared from him to heaven ! 
Who cannot mourn, nor see, his sin, 

How can he be forgiven ? 

"E'en Patmos' gentle seer, 
Doth he not say, in sooth. 

He lies who saith, I have no sin. 
Quite empty of the truth ! 

"Search thou this sacred tome." 
"'Sblood! — Saints! — A knight to 
read!" 

The abbot read. The novice strove. 
With duteous face, to heed, 

But heard a hunt sweep by, 

And to the door did leap. 
Cried, "Holla, ho!" and then, 
abashed, 

Sat down and dropped asleep. 

"Such novice ne'er I saw! 

Sweet Mary be my speed ! 
For sure the sorer is my task, 

The sorer is his need." 

He gazed upon him long. 

With pondering, pitying eyes, 
As the leech on the sick whose hid- 
den ail 
All herbs and drugs defies ; 

And, "Hath thy heart might," at 
last, " to-night," 
He to Sir Pavon said, 
" When all men sleep, thy vigil to 
keep. 
In the crypt among the dead ? 

"Night hath many a tongue, her 
black hours among, 
Less false than the tongues of Day, 
While Mercy the prayer hath full 
leisure to hear, 
Of all who wake to pray. 

" The mute swart queen hides many 
a sin, 
But oft to the sinner's heart 
Remorse, with the tale, she sends 
to wail, 
And thus atones in part." 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



421 



Well-nigh laughed the knight, " Ay, 
and many a night, 
Good father, do not spare. 
Ne'er yet have I found, on or under 
the ground, 
The venture I could not dare. 

" Ten years I've quelled in war lively 
warriors, riear and far; 
Shall I shun a dead clerk's bones 
to see ? 

Ne'er till now I pledged my hand to 
serve in the band 

Of captain I loved like thee." 



Sir Pavon sat upon his shield. 
And breathed the earthy damp, 

And strained his empty ear to hear 
The simmering of his lamp. 

It made a little tent of light. 
Hung round with shadows dim. 

That drooped as if the low-groined 
roof 
Did crouch to fall on him. 

The stunted columns, thick and 
short, 
Like sentry gnomes stood round ; 
And lettered slabs, that roofed the 
dead. 
Lay thickly on the ground. 

He watched to hear the midnight 
lauds. 
But heard them not until 
He deemed it dawn. They swelled 
at last. 
And ceasea ; and all was still. 

The Future towards him marched 
no more ; 

The Past was dead and gone ; 
Time dwindled to a single point; 

The convent-clock tolled One. 

Then the door was oped and closed, 

But by no human hand ; 
And there entered in a Cry, 

And before him seemed to stand, — 

A viewless, bodiless Cry, 

That lifted the hair on his head ; — 
'Twas small as a new-born babe's at 

first. 
But straightway it rose and spread. 



Till it knocked against the roof, 
And his ears they rang and beat ; 

The hard walls throbbed around, 
above. 
And the stones crept under his feet ; 

And when it fell away. 
He reeled and almost fell ; 

And fast for aid he gasped and 
prayed. 
Till he heard the matin-bell. 

The monk who came to let him out 
Scarce knew him. In that night, 

His nut-brown beard and crisped hair 
Had turned to snowy white. 

PART IV. 

Like to a hunted beast. 

To Abbot Urban' s cell 
He rushed ; and with a foamy lip 

Down at his feet he fell : 

"I heard a voice, — a voice! — 

father, help ! It said 
That I the Lord of life 

Had scourged and buffeted, 

" Spit in his face, and mocked, 
And sold him to his foes ; 

Then, through the hollow earth, 
In dreary triumph rose 

" Up, till the words I snatched, 

A fiendish chorus dim, 
' He did it unto one of his ! 

He did it unto him!'" 

" My son, what meaneth this ? " 

" My father, on my word. 
In court or camp, abroad, at home, 

1 never knew the Lord ! 

" I do remember once 

I had a hunchback slave. 
Who to the beggars round my door 

From his own trencher gave, 

" And made them swarm the more, 
Despite the porter's blows. 

And broke into my banqviet-hall, 
With tidings of their woes. 

" Him I chastised and sold. 

But thought no harm, nor knew 
The Lord so squalid minions had, 

Among his chosen few ; 



422 



PARNASSUS. 



" But if the man was his, 
I'll freely give thee thrice, 

In broad, bright rounds of ruddy gold, 
The pittance of his price." 

" Gold buys this world, not heaven. 

This cannot make thee whole. 
Each stripe that rends the slave's 
poor flesh, 

It hurts his Master's soul; 

"And if the slave doth die," 
He said beneath his breath, 

" 1 fear the Master's sprite for aye 
Rots in the second death. 

"But be of better cheer. 

Since thou thy sin canst see, 
'Tis plain thy guardian angel back 

Hath flown from heaven to thee. 

" The soul benumbed by sin. 
And limb that's numb with frost. 

Are saved by timely aches. If first 
They reach the fire, they're lost. 

" The Sun of righteousness, 
Wliose beaming smile on high. 

With light, and life, and love doth 
fill 
The mansions of the sky, 

"And kindles risen souls 

Unto a rapturous glow, 
Who duly sought his scattered rays, 

To bask in them below, 

" Seems but a hideous glare 

Of blazing pangs untold. 
To those whom death hath made 
more pale. 

But could not make more cold. 

" Full many a man like thee, 

Unless by devils driven. 
Would never turn his laggard steps 

To hurry unto heaven. 

" Thank God, who oped thine ear 

Unto their dreary lay, 
Ere came the night that summoned 
thee 

To chant with them for aye ! 

" That holy text, which through 
Their gnashing teeth they laughed 

And screamed, I read thee yester eve, 
And they with wonted craft 



" Told o'er, their fright and pain 
That thou shouldst come to share, 

As birds by hissing serpents scared 
Di'op down, through sheer despair. 

" But in its two pure hands 

Each holy Scripture still 
Doth bear a blessing for the good, 

A curse unto the ill. 

" Heed thou, but do not fear 
Too much their threatening voice, 

Who tremble and believe. Thou yet 
Believing mayst rejoice. 

" Take up thy cross with speed. 

This penance shalt thou do ; 
Thyself in sad humility 

To seek Christ's servant go, 

" Both near and far: and dry 
His tears with thine, if still 

His limbs the toil-exacting earth 
In misery tread and till." 

His forehead from his hands 
Upraised the haggard guest: 

" And even here, and even yet, 
For me no heavenly rest! " 

The abbot shook his head : 

" God help thee now, poor son! 

The heavenly rest is but for those 
Who heavenly work have done. 

" Strife is the bridge o'er hell 
'Twixt sin and sin forgiven; 

Still purgatory lies between 
The wicked world and heaven. 

" The priceless pearl is worth 
The plunge through whelming 
floods. 

The bitter years man loathes are but 
Eternity's green buds. 

" Thou hast, in Satan's ranks. 
To harm been brisk and brave ; 

Thou wilt not shrink, when sent by 
Christ 
To suffer and to save." 



Sir Pavon's gallant steed was dead ; 

Sir Pavon's sword was broke. 
On foot he went; and in his hand 

The abbot's staff he took, 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



423 



A.nd many an hour fared patiently, 
Beneath the parching sun. 

That eyed him tlarough his riven wall 
Before the day was done. 

The shattered casements gaped and 
stared ; 

Black charcoal paved the floor; 
Up rose his hunger-maddened hound, 

And bit him in the door. 

He climbed the scathed and tottering 
stair 

Unto the sooty tower ; 
His rifled coffers upside down 

Lay in his secret bower. 

With heavy heart and tread he trod 

The banquet-hall below ; 
The hollow-voiced echoes chid 

Each other, to and fro. 

A jeering face peeped in ; he heard 

A titter and a shout ; 
In rushed his rabble rout of hinds, 

And round him danced about : 

"Ho, worthy master, welcome home ! 

Where hast thou left thy sword, 
Thy kingly port, and lusty blows ? 

We serve another lord." 

They strove to trip him as he went ; 

They drove him from his door: 
" Now fare ye well, my fathers' halls ! 

We part to meet no more. 

" Farewell my pride and pqmp and 



power 



Farewell, my slippery wealth, 
That bought my soul's sore malady. 
Nor stayed to buy my health ! 

" Farewell, my sturdy strength, that 
did 

The Devil's work so well, 
All blasted by God's thunderbolts, 

That on my spirit fell ! 

"And thou, O brave and loyal Christ, 
Who, 'mid the sordid Jews, 

By love, not fear, constrained couldst 
At Satan's hands refuse 

" The crown and sceptre of the world. 
And choose the cross and rod, — 

Thy more than earthly manhood in 
Its glory unto God 



" Lay down, — accept, and do not 
scorn 

The beaten losel me, 
Wlio, worthless for thy service, come 

For shelter unto thee." 

Walked with him flagging Weariness ; 

And Famine spun his head : 
" I would, of all my feasts, were left 

One little crust of bread." 

Wlien maids and stars their tapers lit, 
He reached a wooden hut ; 

The chinks were gilt by light therein, 
But close the door was shut. 

What seemed an aged woman's voice 
Within, with sob and groan. 

Entreated Heaven in agony 
To send her back her son : 

" The day is night that shows me not 
His face, — the voice of joy 

Mere heart-break till his laugh I hear ! 
O, send me back my boy ! 

"In pity send some tidings soon! 

If thus I grieve, I dread 
Lest, when he hurries back to me, — 

Poor youth ! — he find me dead. 

" Let them not tell me he is dead, 

And buried anywhere ! 
What has the ground or brine to do 

With his dear mouth and hair, 

" That I have kissed and stroked so 
oft 
There by his empty chair ? 
Yon doublet new, I've wrought for 
him. 
He'll soon come back to wear. 

" I brushed the very flies away. 
That with his brows did toy, 

Wlien tired he slept. How could 
the worms 
Or fishes eat ray boy ? 

" O Father, who thine only Son 
Didst yield to pain and death, 

And know'st 'tis deadlier pain to do' t, 
Than give the rattling breath, 

" If not my boy, let unto me 
His faitli and trust be given. 

That I may clasp him yet again, 
If not oil earth, in heaven." 



424 



PARNASSUS. 



She ceased. Sir Pavon softly 
knocked ; 
The door flew open wide. 
"Fear not, good mother," he be- 
gan. 
" O, is it thou? " she cried, 

Then turned away and wrung her 
hands. 

" If thou wilt give to me 
A morsel, and a cup of wine, 

Perchance thy charity, 

"When ended is my present quest, 

I may full well requite, 
If lives thy son, and bring him 
back. 

I am a famous knight, — 

"Although of late mine ambushed 
foe 

Despoiled me traitorly, — 
And maid and matron ever found 

A champion leal in me." 

" Alack, I have no wine nor flesh, 

Nor yet a crust of bread ! 
Herbs for my noontide meal I culled, 

Untasted still," she said; 

"And water from the brook I'll 
bring, — 

Scant fare for hungry guest ! — 
But sit thee down at least, and feed 

Thy weariness with rest. 

"Thou hast seen other lands per- 
chance?" 

" Good mother, many a one. 
I pray you fill my cup once more." 

" O, hast thou seen my son ? " 

"Went he a soldier?" "Nay, but 
he 

Was seized and sold away, 
I know not where. No news of him 

Has reached me from that day. 

" He bade me still with wayfarers 

His scanty portion share. 
Thou eatest from his platter now. 

And sittest in his chair. 

"He was so good!" "Who used 
him so? " 

"Sir Pavon was his name." 
His platter dropped, and over him 

A deadly sickness came. 



"I knew not half my guilt!" he 
shrieked. 
And on his brow did strike ; 
These mothers are like God, then, — 
love 
Ugly and fair alike ! 

' ' ' T was I. Thou art avenged on me. 

To find him is my quest ; 
Nor till 'tis done, in life or death. 

For me is any rest. 

" God's heaviest hand is for his sake 

Meanwhile upon me laid. 
For his deliverance pray, and mine ; 

And take me in his stead. 

" A duteous son I'll be to thee 

Until I give him back. 
I've many friends would give us 
steeds 

To bear us on his track." 

PART VI. 

" Who may yon man be, who on foot 

Comes in his iron coat. 
And, with an old wife at his side, 

Toils towards the castle-moat? 

" He looketh as Sir Pavon should 

If thirty years were o'er; 
But he is dead, they say. We'll 
know. 

Ho, there ! The drawbridge lower ! 

" What, Pavon ! Hast thou come to 
life? 

Thou lookest like a ghost." 
" Nigh slain was I by treachery : 

My sword and all is lost. 

" And I was ill, and worse. Alas ! 

With thee I may not bide. 
But day and night, by fiends pursued, 

Upon a quest must ride, 

"To free my soul, that erst I sold 

To bondage with a slave. 
My merry life is dead in me ! 

Myself a haunted grave ! 

" Of thy dear love, long pledged and 
sworn, 
Some food and drink I pray 
For this poor dame, and gold and 
steeds, 
To bear us on our way." 



NAERATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



426 



He reeled with wealcness: "He is 
starved. 

Lead hence, and feed him well ; 
And when our feast is done to-night, 

His tale we'll hear him tell. 

" He's crazed with shame, as erst 
with pride, — 

Percliance 'twill jilease my guests 
To li^t. My fool is growing old. 

And oft repeats his jests." 

Scarce were they at the burdened 
board 

Ranged by the seneschal, 
When Pa von fed and calmed came in. 

And stood before them all, 

And clasped each slackened hand, 
and smiled 

In many a well-known face. 
And fell upon some cooling hearts 

Once more in kind embrace : 

" Dear mates, how good it is to stand 

Again among you here. 
Though 'neath my ruined towers no 
more 

We make our wonted cheer ! 

" I must not stay ; but list a word, 

And mark it well, before 
I look my last upon you all. 

Perchance, forevermore. 

"Among the tombs I sat, and heard 

Within me or without, — 
I know not which, — a horrid voice : 

It drives me still about. 

"A wondrous thing it told to me. 

As terrible as new. 
Undreamed of to that hour by me. 

To this, I ween, by you. 

"Christ 'mid the serfs hath men, 
whom he 

Dear as himself doth hold ; 
Thus he who sells his Christian slave, 

His master, Christ, hath sold, 

" For from the very book of peace 
The fiends have learned a hymn, — 

' Who did it unto one of Jm, 
Hath done it unto Jiim.' " 

Each in his neighbors' faces looked ; 
And some were pale with fear ; 



" Out ! " roared the host, " ye serving 
men, 
What make ye gaping here, 

" To swallow what concerns you not ? 

Such ravings if they hear. 
They' 11 rave themselves. I saw them 
all 

Prick up each meddling ear, 

"Your pardon, noble comradelS all; 

A very sorry jest 
Was this to make you sport withal ; 

He told me of a quest." 

" My quest it is to find and free 
The hunchback, whom of old. 

When thou wert wassailing with me 
At Christmastide, I sold. 

" Look not so darkly on me, friends, 
I will not mar your feast ; 

But, Raymond, for the red-roan 
steeds 
I lent thee, give at least 

" To me one jennet, mule, or ass, 

That I thereon may lead 
His blister-footed mother hence, 

And make the better speed." 

" Poor man, his case is pitiful. 

If madman e'er I saw, 
He's mad ! Wliat say ye? Let him 
go? 

Or give him chains and straw ! " 

" He was a gallant champion late ! " 
" He's harmless; let him go." 

"Nay, if he stirreth up the serfs 
I cannot count him so." 

Then rage brought back Sir Pavon's 
strength : 

He dashed the casement through, 
Leaped headlong down, and all in steel 

He swam the moat below. 

Forth swarmed the varlets sent, for 
him, 

But soon returned without, 
So hotly with the abbot's staff 

He 'mongst them laid about. 

His comrades from the battlements 
Looked wondering down to see 

The knight the hobbling crone await, 
With pity and with glee. 



426 



PARNASSUS. 



He paced to meet her courteously ; 

He propped her with his arm, 
And with his staff, and bent as if 

To soothe her weali alarm ; 

But with a bitter laugh he said, 
"Sure, he who findeth out 

How fickle are the world's sweet 
smiles. 
Can do its smiles without." 

PAKT VII. 

Long years of hunger, cold, and 
heat. 
And home-sick toil in vain ; — 
Long years of wandering up and 
down. 
O'er inland, coast, and main ; — 

Long years of asking still for one. 
And longing day and night, 

Wlio, ever present with the soul. 
Hath vanished from the sight ! 

The freeman like a growing tree 
Thrives, rooted in his place ; 

The bondman, like a withered leaf, 
Flits on and leaves no trace. 

Sir Pavon's armor rusted off; 

He seemed no more a knight; 
Yet ever to himself he said. 

While raged his inward fight, 

"How quickly may a wrong be done, 

How slowly done away ! 
Shall all eternity repair 

My trespass of a day?" 

While some said, "East," and some 
said, "West," 
And most, "I cannot tell," 
They ate the stranger's crusts, and 
drank 
At many a stranger's well. 

He ever walked, or stood, or sat, 
Between her and the blast. 

She cheered him with forgiving 
words, 
And begged his scant repast. 

In penitent and pardoning woe, 
Thus went they hand in hand. 

The master and the slave. They 
trod 
The cactus-hatching sand. 



They stood beneath the snowy pole, 
Where, quenched, the heavenward 
eye, 

Sinks dizzy back to earth, beneath 
The crumbling, sinking sky. 

PART VIII, 

" O, sail-borne trader, hast thou seen, 
In lands beneath the sun. 

Or in the shadow of the pole. 
My Anselm ? O my son ! " 

"A pilgrim, dame?" "A slave." 
"A slave! 

Ask, have I seen a sheep ! 
Ay, flocks and flocks, where'er I go. 

Yon Moors their hundreds keep, — 

" The lazy tawny dogs! — beyond. 
Where 'twixt these fronting lands 

The writhing sea his pent-up way 
Tears 'twixt the rocks and sands." 

"He is like no one else. His face 
Is wondrous mild and fair ; 

His eyes are kind and bright ; and 
fine 
And silky is his hair." 

"Ha, ha! So whines the shepherd 
lad 

Whose petted ewe hath strayed ! " 
" He bore a hump upon his back," 

Sir Pavon softly said, — 

" Was helpful to the poor beyond 
The custom of mankind." 

Before the statelier questioner 
The merchant searched his mind. 

" Such slave I saw in Barbary, 
A twelvemonth scarce agone. 

A fever-smitten sailor there 
We left to die alone ; — 

"It grieved me much. We could 
not choose. 

Our venture had been lost, 
Had we not seized the first fair gale 

To sweep us from the coast. 

" I hurried back. I. thought to see 

His living face no more, 
But haply give him burial. 

He met me on the shore. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS. 



427 



" Thin as this blade, and white as is 

This handle of my knife. 
A slave, he said, had ta'en him in 

And nursed him like a wife, 

"A hunchback, for he showed me 
him. 
How called you yours?" "His 
name 
Was Anselm." " Ay, and so was 
his, 
It is the very same. 

"Old Hassan's steward in the sun 
Doth beat him to and fro ; 

He limps with water from the tanks 
To make the melons grow. 

"See how my Sea-gull flaps her 
wings. 

Impatient for the deep ! 
Anon shall she to Tripoli 

So lightly dart and leap ; 

"And for that bounteous deed of his 
His mother shall he see ; — 

What costs a good turn now and 
then? — 
Embark and sail with me, 

" For nothing, — if ye nothing have. 

They'll call for little food. 
On landlocked billows, sickened by 

The tossing of the flood." 

The anchor climbed. The wind 
blew fair. 
But ere they neared the pier 
The old wife on death's threshold 
lay, 
Distraught with hope and fear. 

" How canst thou free him from his 
woes? 

Thou hast nor friends nor gold. 
How may I even crawl to him 

His misery to behold ? 

" O master, trail me through the dust 
And leave me at his feet ! " 

" Nay, thou wert patient all those 
years. 
Here, sheltered from the heat, 

" A little longer wait and pray; 

It may be but an hour. 
Our Lord, who bade to succor him, 

I think shall give the power. 



" And, merchant, if he fly with me 
Wilt bear him hence?" "My 
head, 
And thine, were lost belike! Art 
mad? 
'T would surely cost my trade. 

" I buy and sell, but steal not, 
slaves !" 
"Thou'rt known to Hassan?" 
"Ay." 
"Then lead me to him; and the 
Lord, 
I think, the slave shall buy. 

-" Then wilt thou bear him hence, 
and her?" 

" Ay, on mine honest word. 
Oft as I may, I gladly do 

A pleasure to the Lord." 

Turbaned and robed old Hassan sat. 

An atmosphere of rest 
Hung brooding o'er his soft divan. 

His beard slept on his breast. 

His rolling eyes upon the floor • 
Did round about him fall, 

To thread the mazy arabesques 
Paved in his marble hall. 

They shone and glimmered moist 
with dew, 

While, robed in spangled spray, 
Amidst them high a fountain danced 

In whispering, tittering play. 

No joy, grief, awe, nor doubt looked 
through 
His features swart and still ; 
"I ought" had ne'er been written 
there, 
But petrified, " I will." 

" What wouldst thou, merchant?" 
"Nothing, I; 

This godly man would speak, 
A very godly man ! — Methinks 

His wits are somewhat weak." 

" Good Hassan, for thy hunchback 

slave 

I've sought through dreary years; 

Wilt give him up?" "In change 

for what?" 

" Our prayers and grateful tears." 



428 



PARNASSUS. 



" I want them not." " Thou mayst 
one day ! 

When misbelievers stand 
Amazed in judgment, he shall plead 

For thee at God's right hand ; 

" His mother, too; — they're dear to 
Christ ; 

I know it all too well ! 
And I up from my lower place 

Will cry aloft and tell, 

" That thou art he my sinking soul 

Who lifted out of hell ; 
Till all the saints shall join with me, 

O blessed infidel!" 

"Hast nothing else to offer ? " " Ay, 

To serve thee faithfully, 
Another slave I'll give, — myself, — 

As stout a wight as he." 

"Nought hast thou of 'his look; yet 
sure 
He is thy son or brother?" 
"My serf of yore." " 'Tis strange, 
if true! 
Most Christians hate each other. 

"I take thy proffer, false or fair; 

But if to me thou liest. 
And seek'st to steal thyself away, 

E'en in my gates thou diest." 

He clapped his hands ; and in there 
rushed 
A turbaned menial throng. 
Strange words he spake. A dusky 
Moor 
Good Pavon led along, 

With bounding heart, and beaded 
brow. 
And paling, glowing cheek. 
And trembling lips compressed, that 
strove 
To brace themselves to speak, 

Through cool, dank courts, and sul- 
try paths, 

Till, 'twixt the twinkling twigs 
Of citron, and of orange-trees. 

And sun-bathed purple figs, 

He saw the fattening melons bask 
On beds both long and broad, 

And Anselm, staggeringfortli to them, 
Bent 'neath his watery load. 



He oped his mouth to call on him ; 

Amazed, he did but clioke ; 
For with its mighty wrath and joy, 

His great heart almost broke. 

He darted on his track, and 
wrenched 
His pitcher from liis hand. 
The slave dropped back his drooping 
head. 
And strove to understand, 

With bony fingers interlaced 

His dazzled eyes above, 
Why came the tall mute man to him, 

In enmity or love. 

Then muttered he, " This scorching 
sun 

At last hath fired my brain ! 
I seem to see one far away, 

Perchance long dead again, — 

" Sir Pavon! 'Tis some fancy, bred 
Of famine, wild and weak. 

Or fever. Wherefore gaze on it ? 
If 'twas a man 'twould speak." 

Then Pavon in a storm of tears 

Fell crying on his breast : 
" Forgive me, brother, if thou canst! 

I've known no peace nor rest, 

" For years or ages, but to right 

The wrong I did to thee. 
And mine own soul, roamed o'er the 
earth ! 

From henceforth thou art free." 

"Sir Pavon! Is it thou? — and 
here?" 

" Ay; and I hold thee fast 
In verity, as oft in dreams, 

When, as my sliunber past, 

"'Mid fading forms I clutched at 
thine, 
'Mid fading visioned lands, 
And shouting woke, with bloody 
nails 
Clenched in mine empty hands." 

" God ! Heardst thou then my hope- 
less prayers ? 

He's saved ! — And am I free ? " 
" Ay, go thy ways in joy, poor friend, 

Nor cease to pray for me. 



NARRATIVE POEMS AJND BALLADS. 



429 



" The merchant Andrew on the 
shore 

Awaits thee, in his bark. 
His homeward voyage bears him by 

The abbey of St. Mark. 

" The monks, for Abbot Urban' s sake, 
Will house and feed thine age 

When thou hast told to them the end 
Of Pavon's pilgrimage, 

" By him enjoined. Though he be 
dead, 

He must remembered be 
By novices he nurtured." " Sir, 

Dost thou not come with me ? 

" Long wilt thou tarry ? " "Be con- 
tent." 

" Not to forsake thee here. 
I'll serve thee in this homesick land 

For love, as erst from fear." 

"Go thou. I stay." A change 
came o'er 
The hunchback's raptured face: 
"Wliy stays he, Selim, know'st?" 
"To draw 
Our water in thy place." 

He tore his hair ; he turned away ; 

He spake : "It shall not be ! 
All blessings bless thee for the 
thought. 

But 'twere not meet for thee ! 

" Few years are left me on the earth ; 

And God hath taught to me 
That willing bondage borne in Christ 

Is loftier liberty." 

" Then grudge it not unto thy lord," 

St. Pavon following said. 
The slave took up his water-pots, 

Moved on, and shook his head. 

" This is my penance I must do. 

Or be for aye abhorred 
Of Heaven." "I'll help thee bear 
it." 
"Nay, stint not mine earned re- 
ward!" 

St. Pavon's eyes and hands on his 

He fixed, and joyously 
Cried, "Laggard son, thy mother 
waits 

Among the ships for thee I" 



The new slave let the melons thirst 
Till, through the twinkling twigs 

Of citron, and of orange-flowers, 
And sun-bathed purple figs, 

He saw the hunchback hurry o'er 
The' beach, and scale the deck, 

Towards outstretched arms, that 
like a trap 
Did spi'ing and catch his neck. 

Then out he let his pent-up breath, 
Which seemed to blow away. 

In one great sigh, his life's great 
woe, 
And to himself did say, 

"Howe'er, where'er now, in this 
world 

Or that, my lot may fall, 
I bear this scene in memory, 

And I can bear it all." 

Then to his task he turned, with 

mien 
As eager and as bold 
As when his brethren's blood plashed 

round 
His iron march of old. 

Joy drained his lees of life nigh- 
spent 
All in one brimming cup, — 
One wasteful draught of feverish 
strength, — 
And bade him drink it up. 

He dragged the sinking waters out : 
He dashed them on the ground ; 

He panted to and fro ; well-nigh 
The melons swam or drowned. 

Sly women's jet and diamond eyes 

Did near the lattice lurk, 
And twinkle through its screen, to 
see 

The Christian madman work. 

The steward cried, " By Mahmoud's 
beard, 

Some demon toils within 
Yon unbeliever, or a troop 

Of slaves in one's shrunk skin." 

Above him like a vulture came 
The noontide sun, and beat 

Upon his old bald head, and pricked 
Through all his frame with heat; 



430 



PARNASSUS. 



It set but spurs unto his zeal : 
" O Christ, and didst thou see 

My brotlier in tliis torment gasp, 
And through my cruelty ! " 

His short-lived might sanlv with the 
light; 
Black turned the red-hot day ; 
He scarce could drag to Anselm's 
lair 
His heavy limbs away. 

He heard a sound ; he felt a light ; 

He deemed it was the dawn. 
He oped his eyes ; and, lo ! the veil 

Of glory was withdrawn ; 

A radiance brighter than the sun, 
And sweeter than the moon, 

Showed earth a part of heaven ! He 
sighed, 
" 'Tis a God-granted boon, — 

" A vision sent to cheer ray soul, — 

A glimpse of Paradise ! 
O, fade not yet ! A moment more. 

Ere to my toil I rise." 

A quivering fanned the air; and 
shapes 
Like winged Joys stood round. 
"Arise!" they said. He rose and 
left 
His body on the ground, 

His weariness and age. Surprised 

With sudden buoyancy 
And ease, he turned and saw aghast 

His ghastly effigy. 

'"Tis but a dream!" '"Tis heav- 
en." "Forme? 

Not yet ! not yet ! " he said ; 
" I am a traitor ! Give me time ! 

O, let me not be dead ! 



"In mercy put me back to toil 

And scorch, nor bid me brook, 

Ere I've avenged him well on me, 

Mine outraged Master's look!" 

A tender smile glowed through them 
all. 

" Brave martyr, do not fear. 
Our Master calls ! He waits for thee 

To share his bridal cheer ! 

" Full many a weary year is told, 
As mortals tell their years, 

Since loud we struck our harps, and 
sang 
Thy triumph o'er thy tears." 

Before him, spreading welcoming 
arms, 

A shining Urban stood : 
" God gave thee grace to overcome 

Thine evil with thy good. 

" My lesson, brother, hast forgot? — 

I taught to thee of yore. 
That blessings hid, their threats 
amid. 

The awful Scriptures bore." 

Then Pavon to his dear embrace 
In wildered transports sprang ; 

And up the sunny morn they soared. 
The dwindling earth did hang 

Beneath. The air flapped, white with 
wings 

That thickened all about ; 
And wide a song of triumph pealed 

And rang this burden out : 

" To wrest him out of Satan's hands 
His charity sufficed ; 

He did it unto one of Christ's, 
He did it unto Cheist ! " 
Sara H. Palfrey. [E. Foxton. ' 



vm. 

SONGS. 



ft 



SOE"GS. 



► 



MASQUE OF PLEASUEE AND 
VIRTUE. 



Come on, come oh, and where you go 

So interweave the curious knot 

As even the Observer scarce may 

know 
Which lines are pleasure, and which 

not: 
First figure out the doubtful way 
At which awhile the youth should 

stay 
Where she and Virtue did contend 
Which should have Hercules to 

friend. 
Then as all actions of mankind 
Are but a labyrinth or maze, 
So let your dances be entwined. 
Yet not perplex men unto gaze : 
But measured, and so numerous too. 
As men may read each act they do ; 
And, when they see your graces 

meet, 
Admire the wisdom of your feet : 
For dancing is an exercise 
Not only shows the mover's wit, 
But maketh the beholder wise, 
As he hath power to rise to it. 



O more and more, this was so well 
As praise wants half his voice to tell. 
Again yourselves compose. 
And now put all the aptness on 
Of figure, that proportion 
Or color can disclose : 
That, if those silent arts were lost. 
Design and Picture, they might boast 
From you a newer ground 
Instructed by the heightening sense 
Of dignity and reverence 
In their true motions found. 
28 



Begin, begin ; for look, the pair 
Do longing listen to what air 
You form your second touch 
That they may vent their murmuring 

hymns 
Just to the tune you move your limbs, 
And wish their own were such. 
Make haste, make haste, for this 
The labyrinth of Beauty is. 



It follows now you are to prove 
The subtlest maze of all, — that's 
Love, 
And, if you stay too long, 
The fair will think you do them 

wrong. 
Go choose among them, with a mind 
As gentle as the stroking wind 
Eims o'er the gentler flowers. 
And so let all your actions smile. 
As if they meant not to beguile 
The ladies, but the hours. 
Grace, laughter, and discourse 
may meet. 
And yet the beauty not go less : 
For what is noble should be sweet, 
But not dissolved in wantonness. 
Will you that I give the law 
To all your sport, and sum it 
It should be such should envy draw, 
But overcome it. 

Ben Jonson 

SONG. 

Shake off your heavy trance, 
And leap into a dance, 
Such as no mortals use to tread, 
Fit only for Apollo — 
To play to, for the moon to lead, 
And ail the stars to follow ! 
O blessed youth ! for Jove doth pause, 
Laying aside his graver laws 
433 



434 



PARNASSUS. 



I 



For this device : 
And at the wedding such a pair 
Each dance is taken for a prayer, 

Each song a sacrifice. 
You should stay longer if we durst ; 
Away ! Alas ! that he that first 
Gave Time wild wings to fly away, 
Has now no power to make him stay. 
Beaumont and Fletcher. 



MARY DONNELLY. 

Oh! lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you 

I love the best ! 
If fifty girls were round you, I'd 

hardly see the rest. 
Be what it may the time of day, the 

place be where it will, 
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they 

bloom before me still. 

Her eyes like mountain water that's 

flowing on a rock, 
How clear they are, how dark they 

are ! and they give me many a 

shock. 
Eed rowans warm in sunshine and 

wetted in a shower. 
Can ne'er express the charming lip 

that has me in its power. 

Her nose is straight and handsome, 

her eyebrows lifted up ; 
Her chin is very neat and pert, and 

smooth like a china cup ; 
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so 

weighty and so fine ; 
It's rolling down upon lier neck, and 

gathered in a twine. 

Tlie dance o' last Whit-Monday 

night exceeded all before ; 
No pretty girl for miles about was 

missing from the floor ; 
But Mary kept tlie belt of love, and 

O but slie was gay ! 
She danced a jig, she sang a song, 

that toolv my heart away. 

When she stood up for dancing, her 

steps were so complete, 
The music nearly killed itself to 

listen to lier feet ; 
The fiddler moaned his blindness, 

he heard lier so much praised. 
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf 

when once her voice she raised. 



And 



evermore I'm whistling or 

lilting what you sung ; 
Your smile is always in my heart, 

your name beside my tongue ; 
But you've as many sweethearts as 

you'd count on both your h ands, 
And for myself there's not a thumb 

or little finger stands. 

Oh, you're the flower of womankind 

in country or in town ; 
The higher I exalt you, the lower 

I'm cast down. 
If some great lord should come this 

way, and see your beauty bright, 
And you to be his lady, I'd own it 

was but right. 

Oh might we live together in a lofty 

palace hall. 
Where joyful music rises, and where 

scarlet curtains fall ! 
Oh might we live together in a cottage 

mean and small ; 
With sods of grass the only roof, and 

mud the only wall I 

Oh! lovely Mary Donnelly, your, 

beauty's my distress. 
It's far too beauteous to be mine, 

but I'll never wish it less. 
The proudest place would fit your 

face, and I am poor and low ; 
But blessings be about you, dear, 

wherever you may go ! 

Allingham, 

SONG. 

Spking all the graces of the age. 

And all the Loves of time ; 

Bring all the pleasures of the stage, 

And relishes of rhyme : 

Add all the softnesses of Coiu'ts, 

The looks, the laughters, and the 

sports : 

And mingle all their sweets and salts 

That none may say the triumph halts. 

Ben Jonson: Neptune'' s Triumph. 



SONG TO CERES. 

Thou that art our Queen again. 
And may in the sun be seen again, 
Come, Ceres, come. 
For the War's gone home. 
And the fields are quiet and greeu 
again. 






SONGS. 



435 



The air, clear Goddess, sighs for thee, 

The light-heart brooks arise for thee, 

And the poppies red 

On their wistful bed 

Turn up their dark blue eyes for thee. 

Laugh out in the loose green jerkin 
That's fit for a Goddess to work in. 
With shoulders brown. 
And the wheaten crown 
About thy temples perking. 

And with thee came Stout Heart in, 

And Toil that sleeps his cart in. 

Brown Exercise, 

The ruddy and wise. 

His bathed forelocks parting. 

And Dancing too; that's litlier 
Than willow or birch, drop hither. 
To thread the place 
With a finishing grace, 
And carry our smooth eyes with her. 
Leigh Hunt. 



AKABY'S DAUGHTER. 

Fakewell — farewell to thee, Ara- 
by's daughter! 
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the 
dark sea,) 
No pearl ever lay under Oman's 
green water, 
More pure in its shell than thy 
spirit in thee. 

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to 
thee growing, 
How light was thy heart till love's 
witchery came. 
Like the wind of the South o'er a 
summer lute blowing, 
And hushed aU its music, and 
withered its frame. 

But long upon Araby's green sunny 
highlands. 
Shall maids and their lovers re- 
member the doom 
Of her who lies sleeping among the 
Pearl Islands, 
With nought but the sea-star to 
light up her tomb. 

And still when the merry date-season 
is burning. 
And calls to the palm-groves the 
young and the old, 



The happiest there, from their pas- 
time returning, 
At sunset, still weep when thy 
story is told. 

The young village maid, when with 
fiowers she dresses 
Her dark flowing hair, for some 
festival day, 
Will think of thy fate, till, neglect- 
ing her tresses. 
She mournfully turns from her 
mirror away. 

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! 
forget thee ; 
Though tyrants watch over her 
tears as they start; 
Close, close by the side of that hero 
she'll set thee. 
Embalmed in the innermost shrine 
of her heart. 

Around thee shall glisten the love- 
liest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird 
has wept ; 
With many a shell, in whose hollow 
wreathed chamber 
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight 
have slept. 

We'll dive where the gardens of 
coral lie darkling. 
And plant all the rosiest stems at 
thy head ; 
We'll seek where the sands of the 
Caspian are sparkling, 
And gather their gold to strew over 
tiiy head. 

Farewell — farewell — until Pity's 
sweet fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and 
the brave, 
They'll weep for the chieftain who 
died on that mountain, 
They'll weep for the maiden who 
sleeps in this wave. 

Moore. 

THE HARP THAT ONCE 
THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. 

TuE harp that once through Tara's 

halls 
The soul of music shed. 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 
As if that soul were fled. 



436 



PARNASSUS. 



So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 

And hearts that once beat high for 

praise 
Now feel that pulse no more ! 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 

The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 

Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 

Moore. 



CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. 

[Written on the River St. Lawrence ] 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime 

Our voices keep tune and our oars 
keep time. 

Soon as the woods on shore look 
dim. 

We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting 
hymn. 

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs 
fast. 

The rapids are near and the day- 
light's past. 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 

There is not a breath the blue wave 
to curl. 

But, when the wind blows off the 
shore. 

Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs 
fast, 

The rapids are near and the day- 
light's past. 

Utawas' tide ! this trembling moon 

Shall see us float over thy surges 
soon. 

Saint of this green isle! hear our 
prayers, 

Oh, grant us cool heavens and favor- 
ing airs. 

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs 
fast. 

The rapids are near and the day- 
light's past. 

MOOBE. 



THE SAILOR. 

A ROMAIC BALLAD. 

Thou that hast a daughter 

For one to woo and wed, 
Give her to a husband 

With snow upon his head ; 
Oh, give her to an old man. 

Though little joy it be. 
Before the best young sailor 

That sails upon the sea ! 

How luckless is the sailor 

When sick and like to die ; 
He sees no tender mother. 

No sweetheart standing by. 
Only the captain speaks to him, — 

Stand up, stand up, young man. 
And steer the ship to haven. 

As none beside thee can. 

Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand 
up;" 

I say to thee, take hold, 
Lift me a little from the deck. 

My hands and feet are cold. 
And let my head, I pray thee. 

With handkerchiefs be bound ; 
There, take my love's gold handker- 
chief. 

And tie it tightly round. 

Now bring the chart, the doleful 
chart ; 

See, where these mountains meet — 
The clouds are thick around their 
head. 

The mists around their feet : 
Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe 

Within the rocky cleft ; 
The little anchor on the right, 

The great one on the left. 

And now to thee, O captain. 

Most earnestly I pray. 
That they may never bury me 

In church or cloister gray ; — 
But on the windy sea-beach. 

At the ending of the land, 
All on the surfy sea-beach. 

Deep down into the sand. 

For there will come the sailors, 

Their voices I shall hear. 
And at casting of the anchor 

The yo-ho loud and clear ; 



SONGS. 



437 



A.nd at hauling of the anchor 
The yo-ho and the cheer, — 

Farewell, my love, for to thy bay 
I never more may steer ! 

Allingham. 



THE BOATIE ROWS. 

Oh, weel may the boatie row. 

And better may she speed ; 
And iiesome may the boatie row 

That wins the bainiies' bread. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And weel may the boatie row 

That wins the bairnies' bread. 

I coost my line in Largo Bay, 
And fishes I catched nine ; 
'Twas three to boil, and three to 

fry, 

And three to bait the line. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed. 
And happy be the lot o' a' 

Wha wishes her to speed. 

Oh, weel may the boatie row. 

That fills a heavy creel. 
And deeds lis a' frae tap to tae. 

And buys our parritch meal. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows, indeed, 
And happy be the lot o' a' 

That wish the boatie speed. 

Wlien Jamie vowed he wad be mine. 

And wan frae me my heart. 
Oh, muckle lighter grew my creel — 

He swore we'd never part. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
And muckle lighter is the load 

When love bears up the creel. 

My kurteh I put upo' my head, 

And dressed mysel' fu' braw; 
I trow my heart was dough and 
wae, 

When Jamie gade awa'. 
But weel may the boatie row. 

And lucky be her part, 
And lightsome be the lassie's care 

That yields an honest heart. 

Anonymous. 



THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT 
THE HOUSE. 

But are ye sure the news is true ? 

And are ye sure he's weel? 
Is this a time to think o' wark ? 
Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel ! 
For there's nae luck about the 
house. 
There' s nae luck at a' ; 
There's nae luck about the 
house, 
When our gudeman's awa. 

Is this a time to think o' wark, 
When Colin' s at the door? 

Rax down my cloak — I'll to the 
quay, 
And see him come ashore. 

Rise up and make a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot ; 
Gie little Kate her cotton gown, 

And Jock his Sunday's coat. 

Make their shoon as black as slaes. 
Their stockings white as snaw ; 

It's a' to pleasure our gudeman — 
He likes to see them braw. 

There are twa hens into the crib 
Hae fed this month or mair ; 

Mak haste and thraw their necks 
about. 
That Colin weel may fare. 

My Turkey slippers I'll put on, 
My stockins pearl-blue, — 

It's a' to pleasure our gudeman. 
For he's baith leal and true. 

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his 
tongue. 

His breath's like cauler air; 
His very foot has music in't, 

As he comes up the stair. 

And will I see his face again. 

And will I hear him speak? 
I'm downricht dizzy wi' the thought, 
In troth I'm like to greet. 
There's nae luck about the 
house, 
There's nae luck at a' ; 
There's nae luck about the 
house. 
When our gudeman's awa.' 
William Julius Mickle. 



438 



PARNASSUS. 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is held, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, my 30, 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 
We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 
We've had wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John ; 
But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson, my jo. 

BUKNS, 



OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 

Oft in the stilly night. 
Ere Slumber's chain has bound 
me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me ; 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone. 
Now dimmed and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus in the stilly night. 
Ere Slumber's chain has bound 
me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends, so linked together, 
I've seen around me fall, 
Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banqviet hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled. 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus in tlie stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

MOOKE. 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

O DEAR, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts 0' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my 
path. 

And blind my een wi' tears ! 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine. 
As Memory idly summons up ^ 

The blythe blinks o' langsyne. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part; 
Sweet time, sad time ! — twa bairns 
at schule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear; 
And tones, and looks, and smiles 
were shed, 

Remembered evermair. 



I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sitting on that bink, 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in 
loof, 

Wliat our wee heads could think! 

When baith bent down ower ae braid 

page 

Wi' ae bulk on our knee, 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
Whene'er the schule-weans laughin' 
said. 

We cleek'd thegither hame? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays 

(The schule then skail't at noon), 
Wlien we ran aff to speel the braes — '• 

The broomy braes o' June ? 

Oh, mind ye, luve, hov/ aft we left 

The deavin' diusonie toun, 
To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear its water croon ? 
The simmer leaves hung ower our 
heads. 

The flowers burst round our feet. 
And in the gloamin' o' the wud 

The throssil whusslit sweet. 

The throssil whusslit in the wud. 
The burn sung to the trees. 

And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 
Concerted harmonies ; 



I 



SONGS. 



439 



And on the kuowe abune the burn 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young, 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness. 

And happy could I dee. 
Did I but ken your heart still 
dreamed 

O' bygane days and me ! 

William Motherwell. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be for- 
got, 
And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne ! 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu't the go wans fine; 
But we've wandered mony a weary 
foot, 
Sin' auld lang syne. 
For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne ! 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae 
roared, 
Sin' auld lang syne. 
For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne ! 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gie's a hand o' thine; 
And we'll take a right guid willie- 
waught, 
For auld lang syne. 
For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne ! 



And surely ye' 11 be your pint-stoup. 

As sure as I'll be mine; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 
For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne ! 

BUKNS. 



COME AWAY, COME AWAY, 
DEATH. 



Come away, come away, death, 
And in sad cypress let me be laid; 

Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with 
yew, 

O prepare it ! 
My part of death no one so true 
Did share it. 



Not a flower, not a flower sweet. 

On my black coffin let there be 

strewn ; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 

My poor corse, where my bones shall 

be thrown. 
A thousand thousand sighs to save. 

Lay me, O where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 
To weep there ! 

Shakspeake. 



BLOW, BLOW. THOU WINTER 
WIND. 



Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude; 
Thy tooth is not so keen. 
Because thou art not seen. 
Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho ! sing, heigh-ho ! unto the 

green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most 
loving mere folly : 
Then, heigh-ho! the holly! 
This life is most jolly. 



440 



PARNASSUS. 



Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot : 
Though thou the waters warp. 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remembered not. 
Heigli-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the 

green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most 
loving mere folly : 
Then, heigh-ho ! the holly ! 
This life is most jolly. 

Shakspeaee. 



UNDEK THE GREENWOOD- 
TREE. 



Undeb the greenwood-tree 
Who loves to lie with me. 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
Come hither, come hither, come 
hither : 

Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 



Who doth ambition shun. 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats, 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come 
hither : 

Here shall he see 
No enemy. 
But winter and rough weather. 

Shakspeaee. 



SONG. 

I. 

When daisies pied, and violets blue. 
And lady-smocks all silver-white, 
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue. 
Do paint the meadows with de- 
light, 
The cuckoo then, on every tree, 
Mocks married men ; for thus sings 
he. 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear ! 
Unpleasing to a married ear ! 



When shepherds pipe on oaten 
straws. 
And merry larks are ploughmen's 
clocks. 
When turtles tread, and rooks, and 
daws, 
And maidens bleach their summer 
smocks, 
The cuckoo then, on every tree, 
Mocks married men ; for thus sings 
he. 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear ! 
Unpleasing to a married ear ! 



When icicles hang by the wall. 
And Dick the shepherd blows his 
nail. 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
And milk comes frozen home ir 
pail. 
When blood is nipped, and ways be 

foul. 
Then nightly sings the stariug owl, 

To-who ; 
To-whit, to-who, a merry note. 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

IV. 

Wlien all aloud the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's 

saw. 

And birds sit brooding in the snow, 
And Marian's nose looks red am 



raw. 






When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who ; 

To-whit, to-who, a merry note. 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

Shakspeake. 



ARIEL'S SONG. 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I : 
In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
There I couch when owls do cry. 
On the bat's back I do fly 
After summer, merrily. 
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 
Under the blossom that hangs on the 
bough. 

Shakspeaee. 



SONGS. 



441 



TELL ME WHERE IS FANCY 
BRED. 

Tell me where is fancy bred, 
Or in the heart, or in the head? 
How begot, how nourished ? 
Reply, reply. 

It is engendered in the eyes, 
With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies. 
Let us all ring fancy's knell : 
I'll begin it, — Ding-dong, bell. 
Chorus. — Ding-dong, bell. 

Shakspeake. 



FULL FATHOM FIVE THY 
FATHER LIES. 

Full fathom five thy father lies ; 

Of his bones are coral made ; 

Those are pearls that were his eyes; 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly sing his knell : 
Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding- 
dong, bell. 
I Burden. — Ding-dong. 
Shakspeake. 
SONG OF ECHO. 

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time 

with my salt tears ; 
Yet slower, yet, O faintly gentle 

springs : 
List to the heavy part the music bears, 
Woe weeps out her division, when 
she sings. 
Droop herbs and flowers ; 
I Fall grief in showers ; 
I Our beauties are not ours : 
O, I could still. 
Like melting snow upon some crag- 
gy hill, 
Drop, drop, drop, drop 
Since Nature's pride is now a with- 
ered daffodil. 

Ben Jonson. 



» 



SONG. 

Sweet Echo, sweetest nj^ph that 
liv'st unseen 
Within thy airy shell, 
By slow Meander's margent green. 



And in the violet-embroidered vale, 
Where the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sad song mourn- 

eth well ; 
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle 
pair 
That likest thy Narcissus are ? 
O, if thou have 
Hid them in some flowery cave, 

Tell me but where. 
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of 

the sphere ! 
So mayst thou be translated to 
the skies. 
And give resounding grace to all 
heaven's harmonies. 

Milton. 



HARK! HARK! THE LARK. 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's 
gate sings. 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies ; 

And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise. 

Shakspeake. 



THE BUGLE-SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 

The long light shakes across the 

lakes. 

And the wild cataract leaps in 

glory. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild 

echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear. 

And thinner, clearer, farther 

going ! 

O sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly 

blowing ! 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens 

replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying. 



442 



PAHNASSUS. 



O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild 

echoes flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, 
dying, dying. 

Tennyson. 



COUNTY GUY. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 

The sun has left the lea. 
The orange-flower perfumes the 
bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who trilled all day, 

Sits hushed his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the 
hour, 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the 
shade 
Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
To beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier ; 
The star of Love, all stars above, 
Now reigns o'er earth and sky. 
And high and low the influence 
know, — 
But where is County Guy? 

Scott. 



EIVER SONG. 

Come to the river's reedy shore, 

My maiden, while the skies, 

With blushes fit to grace thy cheek, 

Wait for the sun's uprise: 

There, dancing on the rippling wave. 

My boat expectant lies. 

And jealous flowers, as thou goest by. 

Unclose their dewy eyes. 

As slowly down the stream we glide. 

The lilies all unfold 

Their leaves, less rosy white than 

thou. 
And virgin hearts of gold ; 
The gay birds on the meadow elm 
Salute thee blithe and bold, 
While I sit shy and silent here, 
And glow with love untold. 

F. B. Sanborn. 



SONG FROM JASON. 

I KNOW a little garden close 
Set thick with lily and red rose, 
Where I would wander if I might 
From dewy dawn to dewy night. 
And have one with me wandering. 

And though within it no birds sing. 
And though no pillared house is there, 
And though the apple-boughs are bare 
Of fruit and blossom, would to God" 
Her feet upon the green grass trod. 
And I beheld them as before. 

There comes a murmur from the 
shore. 

And in the place two fair streams are," 
Drawn from the purple hills afar. 
Drawn down unto the restless sea ; 
The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the 

bee, 
The shore no ship has ever seen, 
Still beaten by the billows green. 
Whose murmur comes unceasingly 
Unto the place for which I cry. 

For which I cry both day and night, 
For which I let slip all delight. 
That maketh me both deaf and blind, 
Careless to win, unskilled to find. 
And quick to lose what all men seek. 

Yet tottering as I am and weak. 
Still have I left a little breath 
To seek within the jaws of death 
An entrance to that happy place. 
To seek the unforgotten face 
Once seen, once kissed, once reft 

from me 
Anigh the murmuring of the sea. 

William Mobeis. 



OF A' THE AIRTS. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

I dearly like the west ; 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best. 
There wild woods grow, and rivers 
row, 

Wi' mony a hill between ; 
Baith day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers 

Sae lovely fresh and fair, 
I hear her voice in ilka bird 

Wi' music charm the air : 



SONGS. 



443 



There's not a bonnie flower that 
springs 
By fountain shaw or green ; 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings 
But minds me o' my Jean. 

Burns. 



GOLDILOCKS. 

Goldilocks sat on the grass, 

Tying up of posies rare : 
Hardly could a sunbeam pass 

Through the cloud that was her 
hair. 
Purple orchis lasteth long, 

Primrose flowers are pale and 
clear ; 
O the maiden sang a song 

It would do you good to hear ! 

Sad before her leaned the boy, 

" Goldilocks that I love well, 
Happy creature fair and coy, 

Think o' me, sweet Amaiael." 
Goldilocks she shook apart. 

Looked with doubtful, doubtful 
eyes: 
Like a blossom in her heart, 

Opened out her first surprise. 

As a gloriole sign o' grace, 

Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, 
On the blooming, childlike face, 

Dimple, dimple, come and go. 
Give her time : on grass and sky 

Let her gaze if she be fain. 
As they looked ere he drew nigh, 

They will never look again. 

Ah ! the playtime she has known, 

■Wliile her goldilocks grew long, 
Is it like a nestling flown, 

Childhood over like a song? 
Yes, the boy may clear his brow, 

Tliough siie thinks to say him nay, 
When she sighs, " I cannot now. 

Come again some other day." 

Jean Ingelow. 



O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, 
RED ROSE. 

O MY Uive's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June: 

my hive's like the melodic, 
That's sweetly played in tune. 



As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my luve. 

Though it were ten thousand mile. 
Burns. 



GO, LOVELY ROSE. 

Go. lovely rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and 
me, 
That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to 
be. 

Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces 
spied. 
That hadst thou sprung 

In deserts where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended 
died. 

Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die ! that she 

The common fate of all things rare 
May read in thee, — 
How small a i^art of time they 

share 
That are so wondrous sweet and 
fair. 

Waller. 



TO THE ROSE. 

GoE, happy Rose, and interwove 
With other flowers, bind my love. 
Tell her, too, she must not be, 
Longer flowing, longer free, 
That so oft has fettered me. 



444 



PARNASSUS. 



Say, if she's fretful, I have bands 
Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands ; 
Tell her, if she struggle still, 
I have myrtle rods at will, 
For to tame, though not to kill. 

Take thou my blessing thus, and goe 
And tell her this, but doe not so. 
Lest a handsome anger flye 
Like a lightning from her eye, 
And burn thee up, as well as I. 
Hekeick. 



TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS 
AWAY. 

Take, O, take those lips away. 

That so sweetly were foresworn ; 
And those eyes, the break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn ; 
But my kisses bring again, — bring 

again, 
Seals of love, but sealed in vain, — 
sealed in vain. 

Shakspeake. 



GAEDEN SONG. 



Come into the garden, Maud, 
For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad. 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that 
she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 
To faint in the light of the sun she 
loves. 
To faint in his light, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 
The flute, violin, bassoon ; 

AH night has the casement jessamine 
stirred 
To the dancers dancing in tune ; 



Till a silence fell with the waking 
bird, 
And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her 
alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are 
gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the rose, " The brief night- 
goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs .are 
those. 
For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to 
the rose, 
" For ever and ever, mine." 



And the soul of the rose went into 
my blood. 
As the music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and 
on to the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



From the meadow your walks have 
left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we 
meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

VIII. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 

The white lake-blossom fell into the 

lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the 

lea; 



SONGS. 



445 



But the rose was awake all night for 
your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden 
of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 
In gloss of satin and glimmer of 
pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over 
with curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 
From the passion-flower at the 
gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 
She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, 
she is near;" 
And the white rose weeps, " She 
is late; " 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I 
hear," 
And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

XI. 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her 
feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Tennyson. 



TO ALTHEA. 

Whkn Love with unconfin^d wings 

Hovers within my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I he tangled in her hair 

And fettered to her eye. 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 



When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crowned, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free. 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, linnet-like confinM, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty. 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be. 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and qui6t take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free. 
Angels alone, that soar above. 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Lovelace. 



TO CELIA. 

Dkink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from my soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee. 
As giving it a hope that there 

It would not withered be ; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 

And sent it back to me ; 
Since then itgrows and smells, Iswear, 

Not of itself, but thee, 

Ben Jonson. 



THE NIGHT PIECE: TO JULIA. 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee ; 

And the elves also. 

Whose little. eyes glow. 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 



446 



PARNASSUS. 



No Will-o'-th'-Wispe misliglit thee, 
Nor snake nor slow-worme bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there's none to affright 
thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber. 
What though the moon do slumber ? 
The starres of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers cleare, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me wooe thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soule I'll poure into thee. 

Herbick. 



DISDAIN RETUENED. 

He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires. 

Hearts, with equal love combined. 
Kindle never-dying fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

Thomas Cakew. 



LOVE. 

Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing ; 
A plant that most with cutting grows. 
Most barren with best using. 

Wliy so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies. 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 

Heigh-ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Wliy so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 

Heigh-ho ! 
Samuel Daniel. 



THE MANLY HEART. 

Shall I, wasting in despair. 
Die because a woman's fair? 
Or my cheeks make pale with care 
'Cause another's rosy are? 
Be she fairer than the day. 
Or the flowery meads in May — 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how fair she be ? 

Shall my foolish heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind ; 
Or a well disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle-dove or pelican. 
If she be not so to me, — 
What care I how kind she be ? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her merit's value known 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of Best ; 
If she seem not such to me. 
What care I how good she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high. 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would 

do 
Who without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I though great she be ? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair; 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve ; 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me. 
What care I for whom she be ? 

G. WiTHEB. 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 

O, THE days are gone, when Beauty- 
bright 
My heart's chain wove; 
When my dream of life, from mom 
till night. 
Was love, still love. 



SONGS. 



447 



New hope may bloom, 
And days may come, 
Of milder, calmer beam ; 
But there's nothing half so sweet in 
life 
As love's young dream. 

MOOKE. 

THEKLA'S SONG. 

The clouds are flying, the woods are 
sighing, 
A maiden is walking the grassy 
shore, 
And as the wave breaks with might, 
with might. 
She singeth aloud in the darksome 
night, 
But a tear is in her troubled eye. 

For the world feels cold, and the 
heart gets old. 
And reflects the bright aspect of 
Nature no more ; 
Then take back thy child, holy Vir- 
gin, to thee ! 
I have plucked the one blossom 
that hangs on earth's tree, 
I have lived, and have loved, 
and die. 

Anonymous, 
Translated from Schiller. 

THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 

"Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the 
golden cushion down ; 

Rise up, come to the window, and 
gaze with all the town ! 

From gay guitar and violin the silver 
notes are flowing. 

And the lovely lute doth speak be- 
tween the trumpet's lordly 
blowing, 

And banners bright from lattice light 
are waving everywhere, 

And the tall, tall plume of our cou- 
sin's bridegroom floats proudly 
in the air. 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the 
golden cushion down ; 

Rise up, come to the window, and 
gaze with all the town ! 

"Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andal- 

la's face — 
He bends him to the people with a 

calm and princely grace ; 



Through all the land of Xeres and 

banks of Guadalquiver 
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as 

he, so brave and lovely never. 
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, 

of purple mixed with white, 
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, 

whom he will wed to-night. 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the 

golden cushion down ; 
Rise up, come to the window, and 

gaze with all the town ! " 

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her 

cushion down. 
Nor came she to the window to gaze 

with all the town ; 
But though her eyes dwelt on her 

knee, in vain her fingers strove, 
And though her needle pressed the 

silk, no flower Xarifa wove ; 
One bonny rose-bud she had traced 

before the noise drew nigh — 
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow 

drooping from her eye — 
" No, no ! " she sighs — " bid me not 

rise, nor lay my cushion down, 
To gaze upon Andalla with all the 

gazing town!" 

" Why rise ye not, Xarifa — nor lay 

your cushion down — 
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa — with all 

the gazing town ? 
Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, 

and how the people cry : 
He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why 

sit ye still, oh, why!" 
— "At Zara's gate stops Zara's 

mate; in him shall I discover 
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his 

truth with tears, and was my 

lover ! 
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor 

lay my cushion down, 
To gaze on false Andalla with all the 

gazing town! " 

LOCKHART. 



THE BANKS OF DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and 
fair, 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae weary, f u' o' care I 



448 



PAENASSUS. 



Thou' It break my heart, thou war- 
bling bird, 
That wantons thro' the flowering 
thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
Departed — never to return. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine 
twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my f ause luver stole my rose, 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
Burns. 



A WEARY LOT IS THINE. 

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ; 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine. _ 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 

No more of me you knew, my love ; 
No more of me you knew. 

This morn is merry June, I trow. 

The rose is budding fain ; 
But it shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again. 
He turned his charger as he spake 

Upon the river shore ; 
He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 

Said, Adieu f orevermore, my love ; 
And adieu f orevermore. 

Scott. 



THE NIGHT-SEA. 

In the summer even, 
While yet the dew was hoar, 
I went plucking purple pansies, 
Till my love should come to shore. 

The fishing lights their dances 
Were keeping out at sea. 
And "Come," I sung, " my true love. 
Come hasten home to me." 

But the sea it fell a-moaning, 

And the white gulls rocked thereon, 



And the young moon dropped from 

heaven. 
And the lights hid one by one. 

All silently their glances 

Slipped down the cruel sea, 

And "Wait," cried the night, and 

wind, and storm, 
" Wait till I come to thee ! " 

Harriet Prescott Spofford. 



HERO TO LEANDER. 

Oh ! go not yet my love, ^ 

The night is dark and vast ; 

The white moon is hid in her heaven 

above. 
And the waves climb high and fast. 
Oh ! kiss me, kiss me, once again. 
Lest thy kiss should be the last. 
Oh kiss me ere we part : 
Grow closer to my heart. 
My heart is warmer surely than the 

bosom of the main. 

Thy heart beats through thy rosy 
limbs. 

So gladly doth it stir ; 

Thine eye in drops of gladness swims, 

I have bathed thee with the pleasant 
myrrh ; 

Thy locks are dripping bahn ; 

Thou shalt not wander hence to- 
night, 

I'll stay thee with my kisses. 

To-night the roaring brine 

Will rend thy golden tresses ; 

The ocean with the morrow light 

Will be both blue and calm ; 

And the billow will embrace thee 
with a kiss as soft as mine. 

No western odors wander 

On the black and moaning sea. 

And when thou art dead, Leander, 

My soul must follow thee ! 

Oh ! go not yet, my love. 

Thy voice is sweet and low ; 

The deep salt wave breaks in above 

Those marble steps below. 

The turret stairs are wet 

That lead into the sea. 

The pleasant stars have set : 

Oh ! go not, go not yet. 

Or I will follow thee. 

Tenntson, 



SONGS. 



449 



BRIGNALL BANKS. 

0, Bbignall banks are wild and 
fair, 
And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton Hall, 

Beneath the turrets high, 
• A maiden on the castle wall 
Was singing merrily, — 
"O, Briguall banks are fresh and 
fair, 
And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 
Than reign our English queen." — 

" If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend 
with me. 
To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead 
we. 
That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou 
speed. 
As blithe as Queen of May." — 
Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are 
fair. 
And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there. 
Than reign our English queen. 

"I read you, by your bugle-horn. 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a Ranger sworn, 

To keep the king's greenwood." 
"A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And 'tis at peep of light; 
Pis blast is heard at merry mom, 

And mine at dead of night." — 
Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are 
fair. 

And Greta woods are gay ; 
I would I were with Edmund there. 

To reign his Queen of May ! 

" With burnished brand and muske- 
toon, 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold Dragoon, 

That lists the tuck of di-um." — 
" I list no more the tuck of drum. 

No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum, 

My comrades take the spear. 
29 



" And, O ! though Brignall banks be 
fair. 

And Greta woods be gay, 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare. 

Would reign my Queen of May ! 

" Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die; 
The fiend, whose lantern lights the 
mead, 
Were better mate than I ! 
And when I'm with my comrades 
met. 
Beneath the greenwood bough, 
Wliat once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now. 
" Yet Brignall banks are fresh and 
fair. 
And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer queen." 
Scott. 



BONNY DUNDEE. 

To the Lords of Convention 'twas 

Claver'se who spoke, 
"Ere the King's crown shall fall 
there are crowns to be broke ; 
So let each Cavalier who loves honor 

and me 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill lip my cup, come fill 

up my can. 
Come saddle your horses, and 

call up your men ; 
Come open the West Port, and 

let me gang free. 
And it's room for the bonnets of 
Bonny Dundee. 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up 

the street. 
The bells are rung backward, the 

drums they are beat ; 
But the Provost, douce. man, said, 

" Just e'en let him be, 
The gude town is weel quit of that 

Deil of Dundee." 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass- 
market was crammed. 

As if half the West had set tryst to 
be hanged : 



450 



PARNASSUS. 



There was spite in each look, there 

was fear in each ee, 
As they watched for the bonnets of 

Bonny Dundee. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits 
and had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cava- 
liers ; 

But they shrunk to close-heads, and 
the causeway was free. 

At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 

"Away to the hills, to the caves, to 

the rocks, — 
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch 

with the fox ; 
And tremble false Whigs, in the 

midst of your glee. 
You have not seen the last of my 

bonnet and me." 

Scott. 

SONG OF CLAN-ALPINE. 

Hail, to the Chief who in triumph 
advances ' 
Honored and blessed be the ever- 
green Pine ! 
Long may the tree, in his banner 
that glances. 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of 
our line ! 
Heaven send it happy dew. 
Earth lend it sap anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly 
to grow. 
While every Highland glen 
Sends our shout back again, 
" Eoderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
ieroe!" 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by 
the fountain. 
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to 
fade; 
When the whirlwind has stripped 
every leaf on the mountain. 
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult 
in her shade. 
Moored in the rifted rock, 
Proof to the tempest's shock, 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it 
blow: 
Menteith and Breadalbane, then, 
Echo his praise again, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
ieroe!" 



Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in 
Glen Fruin, 
And Bannachars' groans to our 
slogan replied ; 
Glen Luss and Eoss dhu, they are 
smoking in ruin, 
And the best of Loch-Lomond lie 
dead on her side. 
Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid. 
Think of Clan-Alpine with feai 
and with woe ; 
Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear again, 
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
ieroe!" 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of 
the Highlands ! 
Stretch to your oars for the ever- 
green Pine ! ■ 
O that the rosebud that graces yon 
islands ■ 
Were wreathed in a garland around 
him to twine ! 
O that some seedling gem, 
Worthy such noble stem. 
Honored and blessed in their shadow 
might grow! 
Loud should Clan-Alpine then _ 
Ring from her deepmost glen, ■ 
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho J 
ieroe!" 

Scott. 



PIBROCH OF DONTJIL DHU. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan Conuil. 
Come away, come away. 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array. 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy. 
Come every hill-plaid. 

And true heart that wears one ; 
Come every steel blade, 

And strong hand that bears one ! 

Leave untended the herd. 
The flock without shelter ; 



SONGS. 



451 



Leave the corpse uninterred, 

The bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear. 

Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the winds come 

Wlien forests are rended ; 
Come as the waves come 

When navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come. 

Faster and faster. 
Chief, vassal, page, and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset I 

Scott. 



THE DYING BAKD. 



DiNAS Emlinn, lament ; for the mo- 
ment is nigh. 

When mute in the woodlands thine 
echoes shall die : 

No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon 
shall rave. 

And mix his wild notes with the 
wild dashing wave. 



In spring and in autumn thy glories 

of shade 
Unhonored shall flourish, unhonored 

shall fade ; 



For soon shall be lifeless the eye and 

the tongue, 
That viewed them with rapture, with 

rapture that sung. 



Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march 

in their pride. 
And chase the proud Saxon from 

Prestatyn's side; 
But where is the harp shall give life 

to their name ? 
And where is the bard shall give 

heroes their fame ? 



And oh, Dinas Emlinn ! thy daugh- 
ters so fair, 

Wlio heave the white bosom, and 
wave the dark hair ; 

What tuneful enthusiast shall wor- 
ship their eye, 

When half of their charms with 
Cadwallon shall die ? 



Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy 
loved scene. 

To join the dim choir of the bards 
who have been ; 

With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Mer- 
lin the Old, 

And sage Taliessin, high harping to 
hold. 

VI. 

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn ! still green 

be thy shades, 
Unconquered thy warriors, and 

matchless thy maids ! 
And thou, whose faint warblings my 

weakness can tell. 
Farewell, my loved Harp! my last 

treasure, farewell ! 

Scott. 



I 



K. 

DIRGES AND PATHETIC 
POEMS. 



" For when sad thoughts possess the mind of man, 
There is a plummet in the heart that weighs 
And pulls us living to the dust we came from."— BGAUHOirr Ain> FletoheBi 



I 



I 



DIRGES A^B PATHETIC POEMS. 



LACHEIM^; OR, MIRTH 
TURNED TO MOURNING. 

Call me no more, 

As heretofore, 
The music of a feast ; 

Since now, alas. 

The mirth that was 
In me, is dead or ceast. 

Before I went 

To banishment 
Into the loathed west, 

I could rehearse 

A lyric verse, 
And speak it with the best. 

But time, ay me ! 

Has laid, I see, 
My organ fast asleep ; 

And turned my voice 

Into the noise 
Of those that sit and weep. 

Herkick. 



THE NYMPH MOURNING HER 
FAWN. 

The wanton troopers, riding by, 
Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive 
Wlio killed thee. Thou ne'er didst 

alive 
Them any harm, alas ! nor could 
Thy death yet do them any good. 
I'm sure I never wished them ill; 
Nor do I for all this, nor will : 
But, if my simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with Heaven to forget 
Thy murder, I will join my tears, 
Rather than fail. But, O my fears ! 
It cannot die so. Heaven's King 
Keeps register of every thing, 



And nothing may we use in vain ; 
Even beasts must be with justice slain, 
Else men are made their deodands. 
Though they should wash their 

guilty hands 
In this warm life-blood which doth 

part 
From thine, and wound me to the 

heart, 
Yet could they not be clean, their 

stain 
Is dyed in such a purple grain. 
There is not such another in 
The world, to offer for their sin. 

It is a wondrous thing how fleet 
'Twas on those little silver feet; 
With what a pretty skipping grace 
It oft would challenge me the i-ace ; 
And, when it had left me far away, 
'Twould stay and run again and 

stay; 
For it was nimbler much than hinds, 
And trod as if on the four winds. 

I have a garden of my own, 
But so with roses overgrown, 
And lilies, that you would it guess 
To be a little wilderness, 
And all the spring time of the year 
It only loved to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft, where it should 

lie, 
Yet could not, till itself would rise, 
Find it, although before mine eyes ; 
For, in the flaxen lilies' shade, 
It like a bank of lilies laid. 
Upon the roses it would feed. 
Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed. 
And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 
And print those roses on my lip. 
But all its chief delight was still 
On roses thus itself to fill, 
455 



456 



PARNASSUS. 



And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
In whitest sheets of hlies cold : 
Had it lived long, it would have been 
Lilies without, roses within. 

Mabvell. 



THE LABOREE. 

Toiling in the naked fields, 
Wlaere no bush a shelter yields, 
Needy Labor dithering stands, 
Beats and blows his numbing hands, 
And upon the crumping snows 
Stamps in vain to warm his toes. 

Though all's in vain to keep him 

warm, 
Poverty must brave the storm, 
Friendship none its aid to lend, — 
Constant health his only friend. 
Granting leave to live in pain, 
Giving strength to toil in vain. 

John Claee. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF 
SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH 
OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree. 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies 
white 

Out owre the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal 
streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now laverocks wake the merry morn. 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bower, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note. 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank. 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang: 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 



I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been, 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a 
sword 

That through thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor the balm that draps on wounds 
of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy 
reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes. 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy moth- 
er's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

Oh ! soon, to me, may summer suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flowers that deck the 
spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 

BUKNS. 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 

Thy braes were bonnie. Yarrow 
stream. 
When first on them I met my lover: 
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow 
stream, 
When now thy waves his body 
cover ! 
Forever, now, O Yarrow stream I 
Thou art to me a stream of 
sorrow ; 
For never on thy banks shall I 
Behold my love, the flower of 
Yarrow ! 



DIRGES AKD PATHETIC POEMS. 



457 



He promised me a milk-white steed, 

To boar me to his father's bowers ; 
He promised me a little page, 

To squire me to his father's towers ; 
He promised me a wedding-riug — 

The wedding-day was fixed to- 
morrow: 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 

Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow ! 

His mother from the window looked, 
With all the longing of a mother; 
His little sister weeping walked 
The greenwood path to meet her 
brother : 
They sought him east, they sought 
him west. 
They sought him all the forest 
thorough; 
They only saw the cloud of night, 
They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 

No longer from the window look ; 
Thou hast no son, thou tender 
mother ! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 

Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 
No longer seek him east or west. 
No longer search the forest thor- 
ough; 
For wandering in the night so dark, 
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. 
John Logan. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

When spring, to woods and wastes 
around. 
Brought bloom and joy again. 
The murdered traveller's bones were 
found. 
Far down a narrow glen. 

The fragrant birch above him hung 

Her tassels in the sky ; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 

The red-bird warbled as he wrought 
His hanging nest o'erhead, 

And fearless, near the fatal spot. 
Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away ; 

And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 

Were sorrowful and dim. 



They little knew, who loved him 
so. 

The fearful death he met. 
When shouting o'er the desert snow. 

Unarmed, and hard beset; 

Nor how, when round the frosty 
pole 
The northern dawn was red. 
The mountain wolf and wildcat 
stole 
To banquet on the dead ; 

Nor how, when strangers found his 
bones. 
They dressed the hasty bier, 
And marked his grave with nameless 
stones, 
Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, 
and wept, 
Within his distant home ; 
And dreamed, and started as they 
slept, 
For joy that he was come. 

So long they looked; but never 
spied 
His welcome step again. 
Nor knew the fearful death he died 
Far down that narrow glen. 

Bbyant. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

Life and thought have gone away 

Side by side, 

Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they ! 

All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

Close the door, the shutters close. 
Or through the windows we 

shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 

Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here, or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the 
earth. 
And shall fall again to ground. 



I 



458 



PARNASSUS. 



Come away : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious, 
A great and distant city, have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have staid with 
us! 

Tennyson. 



LAMENT FOE JAMES, EARL OF 
GLENCAIRN. 

Ye scattered birds that faintly 
sing. 
The reliques of the vernal choir ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honors of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and 
gay, 
Again ye' 11 charm the ear and 
e'e; 
But nocht in all revolving time 
Can gladness bring again to me. 

The bridegroom may forget the 
bride 
Was made his wedded wife yes- 
treen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 
That on his head an hour has 
been ; 
The mother may forget the child 
That smiles sae sweetly on her 
knee: 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 
And a' that thou hast done for me ! 

BUBNS. 



^ 



HE'S GANE. 



HE'sgane! he's gane! he's frae us 

torn. 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, nature's sel' shall 
mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting 

cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing 

yearns, 

Where Echo slumbers. 



Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest 
bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! 
Ye burnies, whimplin' down your 
glens, 

Wi' todlin' din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 
Frae lin to lin ! 

Mourn, little harebells owre the 

lea; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bowers ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flowers. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the 

wood; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather 

bud; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick 
brood ! — 

He's gane forever! 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye 

great. 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ; 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth I 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth." 

BUBNS, 



I 



TO HIS WINDING-SHEET. 

Come thou, who art the wine and 
wit 

Of all I've writ; 
The grace, the glorie, and the best 

Piece of the rest ; 
Thou art of what I did intend 

The all, and end ; 
And what was made, was made to 
meet 

Thee, thee, my sheet; 
Come then, and be to my chaste 
side 

Both bed and bride. 
We two, as reliques left, will have 

One rest, one grave; 



DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



459 



And, hugging close, we will not feare 
Lust entering here ; 
Wlicre all desires are dead or cold, 

As is the mould ; 
And all affections are forgot, 

Or trouble not. 
Here needs no court for our request, 
Wliere all are best ; 
All wise, all equal, and all just 

Alike i' th' dust. 

Nor need we here to feare the f rowne 

Of court or crown ; 

Where fortune bears no sway o'er 

things. 

There all are kings. 

And for a while lye here concealed. 

To be revealed, 

Next, at that great platonick yeere, 

And then meet here. 

Hekbick. 



ODE. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest. 
By all their country's wishes blessed ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed 

mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the turf that wraps their 

clay; 
And Freedom shall a while repair. 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

Collins. 



DIRGE. 

He is gone — is dust. 

He, the more fortunate ! yea he hath 
finished ! 

For him there is no longer any fu- 
ture. 

His life is bright, — bright without 
spot it was 

And cannot cease to be. No omi- 
nous hour 

fijiocks at his door with tidings of 
mishap. 

Far off is he, above desire and fear ; 

Ko more submitted to the change 
and chance 



Of the unsteady planets. O 'tis well 
With him ! but who knows what the 

coming hour 
Veiled in thick darkness brings for 

us! 

That anguish will be wearied down, 

I know ; 
What pang is permanent with man ? 

from the highest 
As from the vilest thing of every day 
He learns to wean himself ; for the 

strong hours 
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I 

have lost 
In him. The bloom is vanished 

from my life. 
For O ! he stood beside me, like my 

youth. 
Transformed for me the real to a 

dream, 
Clothing the palpable and familiar 
With golden exhalations of the 

dawn. 
Whatever fortunes wait my future 

toils, 
The beautiful is vanished — and re- 
turns not. 

Coleridge : Wallenstein. 



LYKEWAKE DIRGE. 

This ae night, this ae night. 
Every night and alle. 
Fire and sleet and candle-light. 
And Christ receive thy saule. 

When thou from hence away art 

past. 
Every night and alle. 
To Whinny-Muir thou comest at 

laste, 
And Christ receive thy saule. 

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon. 
Every night and alle, 
Sit thee down and put them on. 
And Christ receive thy saule. 

If hosen and shoon thou never gav'st 

none, 
Every night and alle, 
The wliiiines shall prick thee to the 

bare bone. 
And Christ receive thy saule. 



k 



460 



PAENASSUS. 



From Whinny-Muir when thou 

mayest passe, 
Every night and alle, 
To Purgatory fire thou comest at 

last, 
And Christ receive thy saule. 

If ever thou gavest meat or drink. 
Every night and alle, 
The fire shall never make thee shrink, 
And Christ receive thy saule. 

If meat or drink thou never gavest 

none. 
Every night and alle. 
The fire will burn thee to the bare 

bone. 
And Christ receive thy saule. 

This ae night, this ae night, 
Every night and alle. 
Fire and sleet and candle-light. 
And Christ receive thy saule. 

Anon. 



SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral 
stoops, 
No winding torches paint the mid- 
night air ; 
Here the green pines delight, the as- 
pen droops 
Along the modest pathways, and 
those fair 
Pale asters of the season spread their 
plumes 
Around this field, fit garden for our 
tombs. 

And shalt thou pause to hear some 
funeral bell 
Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this 
calm place. 
Not with a throb of pain, a feverish 
knell. 
But in its kind and supplicating 
grace, 
It says. Go, pilgrim, on thy march, 
be more 
Friend to the friendless than thou 
wast before ; 

Learn from the loved one's rest se- 
renity ; 
To-morrow that soft bell for thee 
shall sound, 



And thou repose beneath the whis- 
pering tree. 
One tribute more to this submis- 
sive ground ; — 
Prison thy soul from malice, bar out 
pride. 
Nor these pale flowers nor this still 
field deride : 

Rather to those ascents of being 
turn, 
Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes 
the year 
Eternal, and the incessant watch- 
fires burn 
Of unspent holiness and goodness 
clear, — 
Forget man's littleness, deserve the 
best, 
God's mercy in thy thought and 
life confest. 

Channing. 



DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 
Soft maids and village hinds shall 
bring 

Each opening sweet of earliest 
bloom, 
And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
To vex with shrieks this quiet 
grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here, 
And melting virgins own their love.. 

No withered witch shall here be seen ; 

No goblins lead their nightly crew : 

The female fays shall haunt the 

green. 

And dress thy grave with pearly 

dew! 

The redbreast oft, at evening hours. 

Shall kindly lend his little aid, 
With hoary moss, and gathered flow- 
ers. 

To deck the ground where thou 
art laid. 

When howling winds and beating raia 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 

Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, 
The tender thought on thee shall 
dwell ; 



I 



DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



461 



Each lovely scene shall thee restore, 

For thee" the tear be duly shed ; 
Beloved till life can charm no more, 
And mourned till Pity's self be 
dead. 

Collins. 



DIRGE FOR DORCAS. 

Come pitie us, all ye who see 
Our harps hung on the willow-tree ; 
Come pitie us, ye passers-by, 
Wlio see or hear poor widows crie ; 
Come pitie us, and bring your eares 
And eyes to pitie widows' teares. 

And when you are come hither, 
Then we will keep 
A fast, and weep 

Our eyes out all together, 

For Tabitha, who dead lies here, 
Clean washt, and laid out for the bier. 
O modest matrons, weep and waile ! 
For now the come and wine must 

f aile ; 
The basket and the bynn of bread, 
Wherewith so many soules were fed. 
Stand empty here forever ; 
And ah ! the poore. 
At thy worne doore, 
Shall be relieved never. 

But ah, alas ! the almond-bough 
And olive-branch is withered now ; 
The wine-presse now is ta'en from 

us. 
The saffron and the calamus ; 
The spice and spiknard hence is 

gone. 
The storax and the cynamon ; 
The caroll of our gladnesse 
Has taken wing. 
And our late spring 
Of mirth is turned to sadnesse. 

How wise wast thou in all thy waies ! 
How worthy of respect and praise ! 
How matron-like didst thou go drest ! 
How soberly above the rest 
Of those that prank it with their 

plumes. 
And jet it with their choice per- 
4 fumes ! 

I Thy vestures were not flowing ; 
Nor did the street 
Accuse thy feet 
Of mincing in their going. 



Sleep with thy beauties here, while we 
Will show these garments made by 

thee ; 
These were the coats, in these are read 
The monuments of Dorcas dead : 
These were thy acts, and thou shalt 

have 
These hung, as honors o'er thy grave, 
And after us, distressed. 
Should fame be dumb. 
Thy very tomb 
Would cry out. Thou art blessed. 
Hekkick. 



CORONACH. 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest. 
Like a summer-dried fountain. 

When our need was the sorest. 
The fount, re-appearing. 

From the raindrop shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering. 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary ; 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest ; 
But our flower was in flushing 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber. 
Red hand in the foray. 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river. 
Like the bubble on the fountain. 

Thou art gone, and forever ! 

Scott. 



FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT 
O' TH' SUN. 

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy 
wages. 

Golden lads and girls all must. 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 



462 



PARNASSUS. 



Fear no more the frown o' th' great, 
Tlaou art past the tyrant's stroke: 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash : 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
Shakspeake. 



ODE ON THE CONSECRATION 
OF SLEEPY-HOLLOW CEME- 
TERY. 

Shine kindly forth, September sun, 
From heavens calm and clear. 

That no untimely cloud may run 
Before thy golden sphere. 

To vex our simple rites to-day 
With one prophetic tear. 

With steady voices let us raise 
The fitting psalm and prayer ; — 

Remembered grief of other days 
Breathes softening in the air : 

Who knows not Death — who 
mourns no loss — 
He has with us no share. 

To holy sorrow — solemn joy, 

We consecrate the place 
Where soon shall sleep the maid 
and boy. 

The father and his race. 
The mother with her tender babe. 

The venerable face. 

These waving woods — these valleys 
low 

Between these tufted knolls. 
Year after year shall dearer grow 

To many loving souls ; 
And flowersbe sweeterhere than blow 

Elsewhere between the poles. 

For deathless Love and blessed Grief 
Shall guard these wooded aisles, 

When either Autumn casts the leaf. 
Or blushing Summer smiles. 

Or Winter whitens o'er the land, 
Or Spring the buds uncoils. 

F. B. Sanbokn. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF 
THOMSON. 

In yonder grave a Druid lies, 
Where slowly winds the stealing 
wave; 
The year's best sweets shall duteous 
rise 
To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 

His airy harp shall now be laid. 
That he, whose heart in sorrow 
bleeds, 
May love through life the soothing 
shade. 

Then maids and youths shall linger 
here, 
And while its sounds at distance 
swell. 
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear 
To hear the woodland pilgrim's 
knell. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the 
shore 
When Thames in summer wreaths 
is drest. 
And oft suspend the dashing oar, 
To bid his gentle spirit rest. 

And oft, as ease and health retire 
To breezy lawn, or forest deep. 
The friend shall view yon whitening 
spire, 
And 'mid the varied landscape 
weep. 

But thou, who own'st that earthy 
bed. 
Ah ! what will every dirge avail ; 
Or tears, which love and pity shed, 
That mourn beneath the gliding 
sail? 

Yet lives there one, whose heedless 
eye 
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glim- 
mering near ? 
With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, 
And joy desert the blooming year.. 

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen 
tide 
No sedge-crowned sisters now at- 
tend, 



DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



463 



Now waft me from the green hill's 
side 
Whose cold turf hides the buried 
friend ! 

And see the fairy valleys fade ; 

Dun night has veiled the solemn 
view ! 
Yet once again, dear parted shade, 

Meek Nature's child, again adieu! 

Thy genial meads, assigned to bless 

Thy life, shall mourn thy early 

doom ; 

There hinds and shepherd-girls shall 

dress 

With simple hands thy rural tomb. 

Long, long, thy stone and pointed 
clay 
Shall melt the musing Briton's 
eyes: 
O! vales and wild woods, shall he 
say, 
In yonder grave a Druid lies ! 

Collins. 



EPITAPH FROM SIMONIDES. 

Where is Timarchus gone ? 

His father's hands were round 
him, 
And when he breathed his life away, 

The joy of youth had crowned him. 
Old man ! thou wilt not forget 

Thy lost one, when thine eye 
Gazeth on the glowing cheek 

Of hope and piety. 

Anon. 

ON THE LOSS OF THE " ROY- 
AL GEORGE." 

Toll for the brave — 
The brave that are no more ! 

All sunk beneath the wave, 
Fast by their n»^i^e shore I 

Eight hundred of the brave. 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 

A land breeze shook the shrouds. 

And she was overset : 
Down went the "Royal George," 

With all her crew complete. 



Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kenipenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought. 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

No temiDcst gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in i Ls sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kenipenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 

And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again. 
Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenf elt is gone, — 

His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the waves no more. 

COWPEB. 



LINES. 

"WEITTEN AT GRASMERE, ON TID- 
INGS OF THE APPROACHING 
DEATH OF CHARLES JAMES FOX. 

Loud is the Vale ! the voice is up 
With which she speaks when storms 

are gone, 
A mighty unison of streams ! 
Of all her Voices, One ! 

Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
In peace is roaring like the sea; 
Yon star upon the mountain-top 
Is listening quietly. 

Sad was I, even to pain deprest. 
Importunate and heavy load ! 
The Comforter hath found me here. 
Upon this lonely road ; 

And many thousands now are sad — 
Wait the fulfilment of their fear; 
For he must die who is their stay, 
Their glory disappear. 



464 



PARNASSUS. 



A Power is passing from the earth 

To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; 
But when the great and good depart 
What is it more than this — 

That Man, who is from God sent 

forth, 
Doth yet again to God return ? — 
Such ebb and flow must ever be, 
Then wherefore should we mourn ? 
Wordsworth. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation. 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation. 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom 

we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central 

roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought 

for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones forevermore. 



Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe, 
Let the long long procession go. 
And let the sorrowing crowd about 

it grow. 
And let the mournful martial music 

blow; 
The last great Englishman is low. 

rv. 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the 

Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he 

greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the 

street. 
friends, our chief state-oracle is 

mute: 



Mourn for the man of long-enduring ' 

blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, 

resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influ 

ence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 
Our greatest yet with least pretence. 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common-sense. 
And, as the greatest only are, 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men 

knew, 
O voice from which their omens all 

men drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fallen at length that tower of 

strength 
Which stood four-square to all the 

winds that blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will 

be seen no more. 



All is over and done: 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be tolled. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest forever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be tolled : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with its blazoned 

deeds, 
Dark in its funeral fold. 
Let the bell be tolled : 
And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoUed ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing an- 
them rolled 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder 

his loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain' s-ear has heard them 

boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom: 



DIRGES AJSTD PATHETIC POEMS. 



465 



When he with those deep voices 

wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from 

shame; 
With those deep voices our dead cap- 
tain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name, 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attempered frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long. 
To such a name. 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 

VI. 

Who is he that cometh, like an hon- 
ored guest, 
With banner and with music, with 

soldier and with priest. 
With a nation weeping, and breaking 

on my rest ? 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou 

famous man. 
The greatest sailor since our world 

began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gained a hundred fights. 
Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clashed with his fiei7 few and won ; 
And underneath another sun, 
Warring on a later day. 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labored rampart-lines, 
Where he greatly stood at bay, 
Whence he issued forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew, 
•Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms. 
Back to France with countless blows, 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
30 



Followed up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheeled on Europe-shadow- 
ing wings. 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron 

crown 
On that loud sabbath shook the 

spoiler down ; 
A day of onsets of despair ! 
Dashed on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foamed them- 
selves away; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Through the long-tormented air 
Heaven flashed a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged 

and overthrew. 
So great a soldier taught us there. 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty Seaman, tender and true. 
And pure as he from taint of craven 

guile, 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine. 
If love of country move thee there 

at all. 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 

thine ! 
And thro' the centuries let a people's 

voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice. 
The proof and echo of all human 

fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
Attest their great commander's 

claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to 

him. 
Eternal honor to his name. 

VII. 

Remember him who led your hosts ; 

He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 

Your cannons moulder on the sea- 
ward wall ; 

His voice is silent in your council- 
hall 



466 



PARNASSUS. 



Forever; and, wliatever tempests 
lower, 

Forever silent ; even if they broke 

In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 

He spoke among you, and the Man 
who spoke ; 

Wlio never sold the truth to serve 
the hour. 

Nor paltered with Eternal God for 
power ; 

Wlio let the turbid streams of rumor 
flow 

Thro' either babbling world of high 
and low ; 

Whose life was work, whose lan- 
guage rife 

With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 

Who never spoke against a foe ; 

Whose eighty winters freeze with one 
rebuke 

All great self-seekers trampling on 
the right : 

Truth-teller was our England's Al- 
fred named ; 

Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 

Whatever record leap to light. 

He never shall be shamed. 



Hush, the Dead March wails in the 

people's ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there are 

sobs and tears : 
The black earth yawns : the mortal 

disappears ; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 
He is gone who seemed so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in State, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can 

weave him. 
Speak no more of his renown. 
Lay your earthly fancies down, 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 
Tennyson. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN 
MOORE AT CORUNNA. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral 
note. 
As his corse to the rampart we 
hurried ; 



Not a soldier discharged his farewell 
shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we 
buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
The sods with oiir bayonets turn- 
ing; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty 
light 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, ■ 
Not in sheet nor in shroud we ■ 
wound him ; 
But he lay like a warrior taking his 
rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we 
said 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face 
of the dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the 
morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his nar- 
row bed. 
And smoothed down his lonely 
pillow. 
That the foe and the stranger would 
tread o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit 
that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid 
him; 
But little he'll reck, if they let him 
sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has 
laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock tolled the hour 
for retiring : 
And we heard the distant random 
gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh 

and gory ; 

We carved not a line, we raised not 

a stone, — 

But we left him alone with his glory. 

Charles Wolfe. 



DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



467 



ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 

Silence augmenteth griefe, writing 

encreaseth rage, 
Staid are my thoughts, Avhich loved 

and lost, the wonder of our 

age, 
Yet quickened now with fire, though 

dead with frost ere now. 
Enraged I write I know not what : 

dead, quick, I know not how. 

Hard hearted mindes relent, and 

Rigor's tears abound, 
And Env'y strangely rues his end, in 

whom no fault she found ; 
Knowledge his light hath lost. Valor 

hath slaine her knight : 
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, 

dead is the world's delight. 

Place pensive wailes his fall, whose 

presence was her pride, 
Time crieth out, my ebbe is come, 

his life was my spring-tide ; 
Fame mournes in that she lost, the 

ground of her reports, 
Each living wight laments his lacke, 

and all in sundry sorts. 

He was — wo worth that word — to 

each well thinking minde, 
A spotless friend, a matchless man, 

whose vertue ever shined, 
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, 

and that he writ, 
Highest conceits, longest foresights, 

and deepest works of wit. 

He onely like himselfe, was second 

unto none, 
Wliere death — though life — we rue, 

and wrong, and all in vaine do 

mone. 
Their losse, not him waile they, that 

fill the world with cries, 
Death slue not him, but he made 

death his ladder to the skies. 

Now sinke of sorrow I, who live, the 

more the wrong. 
Who wishing Death, whom death 

denies, whose thread is all too 

long, 
Wlio tied to wretched life, who look 

for no relief, 
Must spend my ever-dying days in 

never-ending grief. 



Heart's ease and onely I, like para- 

leles run on. 
Whose equall length, keepe equall 

bredth and never meete in one. 
Yet for not wronging him, my 

thoughts, my sorrowes' cell, 
Shall not run out, though leake they 

will, for liking him so well. 

Farewel to you my hopes, my Avont- 

ed waking dreames, 
Farewel sometime enjoyed joy 

eclipsed are thy beams, 
Farewel selfe-pleasing thoughts, 

which quietness brings forth, 
And farewel friendship's sacred 

league uniting minds of worth. 

And farewel mery heart, the gift of 
guiltless mindes. 

And all sports, which for live's re- 
store, varietie assignes, 

Let all that sweet is voide? in me 
no mirth may dwell, 

Philip the cause of all this woe, my 
life's content, farewel. 

Now rime, the source of rage, which 

art no kin to skill. 
And endless griefe which deads my 

life, yet knows not now to kill. 
Go seeke that haples tombe, which 

if ye hap to finde, 
Salute the stones, that keep the 

lines, that held so good a 

minde. 
FuLKE Gbeville, Loed Brooke. 



LYCIDAS. 

[In this monody, the author bewails a 
learned friend, unfortunately drowned in 
his passage from Chester on the Irish 
seas, 1637, and by occasion foretells the 
ruin of our coiTupted clergy, then ui 
their height.] 

Yet once more, O ye" laurels, and 
once more 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never, 
sere, 

I come to pluck your b(irri('.s harsh 
and crude. 

And with forced fingers rude, 

Shatter your leaves "before the mel- 
lowing year. 

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion 
dear. 



468 



PARNASSUS. 



Compels me to disturb your season 

due: 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his 

prime, 
Young Lycidas! and hath not left 

liis peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas? 

He knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty 

rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching 

wind. 
Without the meed of some melodi- 
ous tear. 
Begin then. Sisters of the sacred 

well. 
That from beneath the seat of Jove 

doth spring, 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep 

the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy ex- 
cuse; 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined 

urn, 
And as he passes turn. 
And bid fair peace be to my sable 

shroud. 
For we were nurst upon the self- 
same hill. 
Fed the same flock, by fountain, 

shade, and rill ; 
Together both, ere the high lawns 

appeared 
Under the opening eyelids of the 

morn. 
We drove a-field, and both together 

heard 
What time the gray-fly winds her 

sultry horn, 
Battening our flocks with the fresh 

dews of night. 
Oft till the star that rose, at evening 

bright. 
Toward heaven's descent had sloped 

his westering wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not 

mute. 
Tempered to the oaten flute, 
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns 

with cloven heel 
From the glad sound would not be 

absent long. 
And old Damastas loved to hear our 

song. 
But O the heavy change, now thou 

art gone. 



Now thou art gone, and never must 

return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and 

desert caves 
With wild thyme and the gadding 

vine o'ergrown, 
And all their echoes mourn. 
The willows, and the hazel copses] 

green, 
Shall now no more be seen. 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thyj 

soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose. 
Or taint- worm to the weanling herds 

that graze. 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay 

wardrobe wear. 
When first the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's 

ear. 
Where were ye. Nymphs, when 

the remorseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved 

Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the 

steep. 
Where your old Bards, the famous 

Druids, lie. 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her 

wizard stream. 
Ay me, I fondly di'eam ! 
Had ye been there — for what could 

that have done ? 
What could the Muse herself, that 

Orpheus bore. 
The Muse herself, for her inchanting 

son. 
Whom universal nature did lament, 
When by the rout that made the 

hideous roar. 
His gory visage down the stream was 

sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Les- 
bian shore? 
Alas! what boots it with unce&- 

sant care 
To tend the homely slighted shep- 
herd's trade. 
And strictly meditate the thankless 

Muse ? 
Were it not better done as other." 

use. 
To sport with Amaryllis in the 

shade. 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit 

doth raise 



DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



469 



(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn cleliglits, and live laborious 

days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope 

to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden 

blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with the ab- 
horred shears, 
And slits the thin-spun life. But 

not the praise, 
Phcebus replied, and touched my 

trembUng ears ; 
Fame is no plant that grows on mor- 

• tal soil. 
Nor in the glistering foil 
Set off to the world, nor in broad 

rumor lies ; 
But lives and spreads aloft by those 

pure eyes. 
And perfect witness of all-judging 

Jove; 
As he pronounces lastly on each 

deed, 
Of so much fame in heaven expect 

thy meed. 
O fountain Arethuse, and thou 

honored flood. 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned 

with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher 

mood ; 
But now my oat proceeds. 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune's plea; 
He asked the waves, and asked the 

felon winds, 
Wliat hard mishap hath doomed this 

gentle swain? 
And questioned every gust of rug- 
ged wings 
That blows from off each beaked 

promontory : 
They knew not oiC his story. 
And sage Hippotades theu* answer 

brings, 
That not a blast was from his dun- 
geon strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level 

brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters 

played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious 

bark, 
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with 

curses dark, 
That sunk so low that sacred head 

of thine. 



Next Camus, reverend sire, went 

footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet 

sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on 

the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower in- 
scribed with woe. 
Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my 

dearest pledge ? 
Last came, and last did go. 
The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals 

twain, 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts 

amain) 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern 

bespake ; 
How well could I have spared for 

thee, young swain, 
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into 

the fold ? 
Of other care they little reckoning 

make. 
Than how to scramble at the shear- 
er's feast, 
And shove away the worthy bidden 

guest ; 
Blind mouths! that scarce them- 
selves know how to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught 

else the least 
That to the faithful herdman's art 

belongs ! 
Wliat recks it them? What need 

they ? They are sped ; 
And when they list their lean and 

flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of 

wretched straw. 
The hungry sheep look up, and are 

not fed. 
But swoln with wind, and the rank 

mist they draw. 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion 

spread ; 
Besides what the grim wolf with 

privy paw 
Dailydevours apace, and nothingsaid ; 
But that two-handed engine at the 

door 
Stands ready to smite once, and 

smite no more. 
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice 

is past, 
That shrunk thy streams; return, 

Sicilian Muse, 



470 



PARNASSUS. 



And call the vales, and bid them 
hither cast 

Their bells, and flowerets of a thou- 
sand hues. 

Ye valleys low, where the mild whis- 
pers use 

Of shades, and wanton winds, and 
gushing brooks, 

On whose fresh lap the swart star 
sparely looks. 

Throw hither all your quaint enam- 
elled eyes, 

That on the green turf suck the 
honeyed showers. 

And purple all the ground with ver- 
nal flowers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that for- 
saken dies. 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessa- 
mine, 

The white pink, and the pansy 
freakt with jet, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired 
woodbine. 

With cowslips wan that hang the 
pensive head, 

And every flower that sad embroi- 
dery wears : 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffodillies fill their cups with 
tears, 

To strew the laureate hearse where 
Lycid lies. 

For so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with 
false surmise. 

Ay me ! Whilst thee the shores and 
sounding seas 

Wash far away, where'er thy bones 
are hurled, 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebri- 
des, 

Wliere thou perhaps under the 
whelming tide 

Visit' St the bottom of the monstrous 
world ; 

Or whether thou, to our moist vows 
denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 

Where the great vision of the guard- 
ed mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayo- 
na's hold; 

Look homeward Angel now, and 
melt with ruth. 

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hap- 
less youth. 



Weep no more, woful sbcpherds, 
weep no more, 

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead. 

Sunk though he be beneath the wa- 
tery floor ; 

So sinks the day-star in the ocean 
bed, 

And yet anon repairs his drooping 
head, 

And tricks his beams, and with new- 
spangled ore 

Flames in the forehead of the morn- 
ing sky. 

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted 
high. 

Through the dear might of Him that 
walked the waves, 

Where other groves, and other 
streams along, 

With nectar pure his oozy locks he 
laves, 

And hears the unexpressive nuptial 
song. 

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy 
and love. 

There entertain him all the saints 
above, 

In solemn troops, and sweet socie- 
ties. 

That sing, and singing in their glory 
move. 

And wipe the tears forever from his 
eyes. 

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep 
no more; 

Henceforth thou art the Genius of 
the shore, 

In thy large recompense, and shalt 
be good 

To all that wander in that perilous 
flood. 
Thus sang the uncouth swain to 
the oaks and rills. 

While the still morn went out with 
sandals gray ; 

He touched the tender stops of vari- 
ous quills, 

With eager thought warbling his 
Doric lay ; 

And now the sun had stretched out 
all the hills, 

And now was dropt into the western 
bay; 

At last he rose, and twitched his 
mantle blue ; — 

To-morrow to fresh woods, and pas- 
tures new. 

Milton. 






DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



471 



DEPARTED. 

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 

I had no human fears : 
She seemed a thing that could not 
feel 

The touch of earthly years. 
No motion has she now, no force ; 

She neither hears nor sees ; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal 
course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 

WOBDSWOKTH. 



THYRSIS. 

[A monody to commemorate the au- 
thor's friend, Arthur Hugh Clough, who 
died at Florence, 1861.] 

How changed is here each spot man 

makes or fills ! 
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps 
the same; 
The village-street its haunted man- 
sion lacks, 
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's 
name. 
And from the roofs the twisted 
chimney-stacks. 
Are ye, too, changed, ye hills ? 
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 
To-night from Oxford up your 

pathway strays ! 
Here came I often, often, in old 
days; 
Thyrsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis 
then. 

Runs it not here, the track by Childs- 

worth Farm, 
Up past the wood, to where the elm- 
tree crowns 
The hill behind whose ridge the 
sunset flames ? 
The Signal-Elm, that looks on Ilsley 
Downs, 
The Vale, the three lone wears, 
the youthful Thames ? — 
This winter-eve is warm. 
Humid the air; leafless, yet soft as 
spring, 
The tender purple spray on copse 

and briers ; 
And that sweet City with her 
dreaming spires. 
She needs not June for beauty's 
heightening. 



Lovely all times she lies, lovely to- 
night. 
Only, methinks, some loss of habit's 
power 
Befalls me wandering through this 
upland dim. 
Once passed I blindfold here, at any 
hour. 
Now seldom come I, since I came 
with him. 
That single elm-tree bright 
Against the west — I miss it! is it 
gone ? 
We prized it dearly ; while it stood, 

we said, 
Our friend, the Scholar-Gypsy, was 
not dead ; 
Wliile the tree lived, he in these 
fields lived on. 

Too rare, too rare, grow now my 

visits here ! 
But once I knew each field, eacli 
flower, each stick, 
And with the country-folk ac- 
quaintance made 
By barn in threshing-time, by new- 
built rick. 
Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we 
first assayed. 
Ah me ! this many a year 
My pipe is Iost,myshepherd's holiday. 
Needs must t lose them, needs 

with heavy heart 
Into the world and wave of men 
depart ; 
But Thyrsis of his own will went 
away. 

It irked him to be here, he could not 

rest. 
He loved each simple joy the country 
yields. 
He loved his mates; but yet he 
could not keep. 
For that a shadow lowered on the 
fields, 
Here with the shepherds and the 
silly sheep. 
Some life of men unblest 
He knew, which made him droop, 
and filled his head. 
He went ; his piping took a trou- 
bled sound 
Of storms that rage outside our 
happy ground ; 
He could not wait their passing, he 
is dead. 



472 



PARNASSUS. 



i 



So, some tempestuous morn in early 

June, 
When the year's primal burst of 
bloom is o'er, 
Before the roses and the longest 
day — 
When garden-walks, and all the 
grassy floor, 
With blossoms, red and white, of 
fallen May, 
And chestnut - flowers, are 
strewn — 
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting 
cry, 
From the wet field, through the 

vexed garden-trees. 
Come with the volleying rain and 
tossing breeze : 
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom 
go 1. 

Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt 

thou go ? 
Soon will the high Midsummer pomps 
come on. 
Soon will the musk carnations 
break and swell, 
Soon shall we have gold-dusted 
snapdragon, 
Sweet-William with its homely 
cottage-smell. 
And stocks in fragrant blow ; 
Koses that down the alleys shine afar, 
And open, jasmine-muffled lattices. 
And groups under the dreaming 
garden-trees. 
And the full moon, and the white 
evening-star. 

He hearkens not! light comer, he is 

gone ! 
What matters it ? next year he will 
return. 
And we shall have him in the 
sweet spring-days. 
With whitening hedges, and un- 
crumpling fern, 
And blue-bells trembling by the 
forest-ways. 
And scent of hay new-mown. 
But Thyrsis never more we swains 
siiall see ; 
See him come back, and cut a 

smoother reed, 
And blow a strain the world at last 
shall heed, — 
For Time, not Corydon, hath con- 
quered thee. 



Alack, for Corydon no rival now ! 
But when Sicilian shepherds lost a 
mate. 
Some good survivor with his flute 
would go. 
Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate. 
And cross the unpermitted ferry's 
flow. 
And unbend Pluto's brow. 
And make leap up with joy the beau- 
teous head 
Of Proserpine, among whose 

crowned hair 
Are flowers, first opened on Sicil- 
ian air ; 
And flute his friend, like Orpheus, 
from the dead. 



O easy access to the hearer's grace. 
When Dorian shepherds sang to 
Proserpine ! 
For she herself had trod Sicilian 
fields. 
She knew the Dorian water's gush 
divine. 
She knew each lily white which 
Enna yields. 
Each rose with blushing face ; 
She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian 
strain. 
But ah, of our poor Thames she 

never heard ! 
Her foot the Cumner cowslips 
never stirred ; 
And we should tease her with our 
l)laint in vain. 



Well! wind-dispersed and vain the 

words will be, 
Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its 
hour 
In the old haunt, and find our tree- 
topped hill ! 
Wlio, if not I, for questing here hath 
power ? 
I laiow the wood which hides the 
daffodil, 
I know the Fyfield tree, 
I know what white, what purple 
fritillaries 
The grassy harvest of the river- 
fields, 
Above by Ensham, down by Sand- 
ford, yields; 
And what sedged brooks are Thames's 
tributaries ; 



DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



473 



I know these slopes; who knows 

them if not I ? — 
But many a dingle on the loved hill- 
side, 
With thorns once studded, old, 
white-blossomed trees, 
Wliere thick the cowslips grew, and, 
far descried, 
High towered the spikes of purple 
orchises, 
Hath since our day put by 
The coronals of that forgotten time ; 
Down each green bank hath gone 

the ploughboy's team, 
And only in the hidden brookside 
gleam 
Primroses, orphans of the flowery 
prime. 

Where is the girl, who, by the boat- 
man's door. 
Above the locks, above the boating 
throng, 
Unmoored our skiff, when, through 
the Wytham flats. 
Red loosestrife and blond meadow- 
sweet among, 
And darting swallows, and light 
water-gnats. 
We tracked the shy Thames 
shore ? 
Where are the mowers, who, as the 
tiny swell 
Of our boat passing heaved the 

river-grass, 
Stood with suspended scythe to 
see us pass ? 
They all are gone, and thou art gone 
as well. 

Tes, thou art gone, and round me 

too the Night 
In ever-nearing circle weaves her 
shade. 
I see her veil draw soft across the 
day, 
I feel her slowly chillingbreath invade 
The cheek grown thin, the brown 
hair sprent with gray ; 
I feel her finger light 
Laid pausefully upon life's headlong 
train ; 
The foot less prompt to meet the 

morning dew. 
The heart less bounding at emo- 
tion new. 
And hope, once crushed, less quick 
to spring again. 



And long the way appears, which 

seemed so short 
To the unpractised eye of sanguine 
youth ; 
And high the mountain-tops, in 
cloudy air. 
The mountain-tops where is the 
throne of Truth, 
Tops in life's morning-sun so 
bright and bare. 
Unbreachable the fort 
Of the long-battered world uplifts its 
wall; 
And strange and vain the earthly 

turmoil grows. 
And near and real the charm of 
thy repose, 
And Night as welcome as a friend 
would fall. 

But hush ! the upland hath a sudden 

loss 
Of quiet. Look! adown the dusk 
hillside 
A troop of Oxford hunters going 
home, 
As in old days, jovial and talking, 
ride. 
From hunting with the Berkshire 
hounds they come. 
Quick ! let me fly, and cross 
Into yon further field. 'Tis done; 
and see. 
Backed by the sunset, which doth 

glorify 
The orange and pale violet evening- 
sky, 
Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree ! 
the Tree ! 

I take the omen ! Eve lets down her 

veil. 
The white fog creeps from bush to 
bush about, 
The west unflushes, the high stars 
grow bright, 
And in the scattered farms the lights 
come out. 
I cannot reach the Signal-Tree to- 
iiight. 
Yet, happy omen, hail ! 
Hear it from thy broad lucent Anio 
vale, 
(For there thine earth-forgetting 

eyelids keep 
The morningless and unawakening 
sleep 
Under the flowery oleanders pale,) 



474 



PARNASSUS. 



Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our Tree is 

there ! — 
All, vain ! These English fields, this 
upland dim. 
These brambles pale with mist 
engarlanded, 
That lone, sky-pointing Tree, are not 
for him. 
To a boon southern country he is 
fled. 
And now in happier air. 
Wandering with the great Mother's 
train divine 
(And purer or more subtle soul 

than thee, 
I trow, the mighty Mother doth 
not see !) 
Within a folding of the Apennine, 

Thou hearest the immortal strains 

of old. 
Putting his sickle to the perilous 
grain, 
In the hot corn-field of the Phry- 
gian king. 
For thee the Lityerses song again 
Young Daphnis with his silver 
voice doth sing ; 
Sings his Sicilian fold, 
His sheep, his hapless love, his 
blinded eyes ; 
And how a call celestial round him 

rang, 
And heavenward from the foun- 
tain-brink he sprang, 
And all the marvel of the golden 
skies. 

There thou art gone, and me thou 

leavest here, 
Sole in these fields; yet will I not 
despair. 
Despair I will not, while I yet des- 
cry 
'Neath the soft canopy of English 
air 
That lonely Tree against the west- 
ern sky. 
Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. 
Our Gypsy Scholar haunts, outliving 
thee! 
Fields where the sheep from cages 

pull the hay, 
Woods with anemones in flower 
till May, 
Know him a wanderer still ; then 
why not me ? 



A fugitive and gracious light he 

seeks, 
Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. 
This does not come with houses or 
with gold. 
With place, with honor, and a flat- 
tering crew ; 
'Tis not in the world's market 
bought and sold. 
But the smooth-slipping weeks 
Drop by, and leave its seeker still 
untired. 
Out of the heed of mortals is he 

gone, 
He wends unfollowed, he must , 
hovise alone ; 
Yet on he fares, by his own heart 
inspired. 

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on this quest 

wert bound, 
Thou wanderedst with me for a lit- 
tle hour. 
Men gave thee nothing; hut this 
happy quest, 
If men esteemed thee feeble, gave 
thee power, 
If men procured thee trouble, gave 
thee rest. 
And this rude Cumner ground-, 
Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its 
quiet fields, 
Here cam'st thou in thy jocund 

youthful time. 
Here was thine height of strength, 
thy golden prime, 
And still the haunt beloved a virtue 
yields. 

What though the music of thy rustic 

flute 
Kept not for long its happy country 
tone; 
Lost it too soon, and learnt a 
stormy note 
Of men contention-tost, of men who 
groan. 
Which tasked thy pipe too sore, 
and tired thy throat — 
It failed, and thou wert mute. 
Yet hadst thou alway visions of our 
light. 
And long with men of care thou 

couldst not stay, 
And soon thy foot resumed its 
wandering way. 
Left human haunt, and on alone till 
night. 



DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



475 



I 



Too rare, too rare, grow now my 

visits here ! 
'Mid city noise, not, as with thee of 
yore, 
Thyrsi s, in reach of sheep-bells is 
my home. 
Then through the great town's harsh, 
heart-wearying roar. 
Let in thy voice a whisper often 
come. 
To chase fatigue and fear : 
^V^ly faintest thou ? I wandered till 
I died. 
Roam on ; the light we sought is 

shining still. 
Dost thou ask proof f Our Tree yet 
crowns the hill, 
Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill- 
side. 

Matthew Aenold. 



DIOK 

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! 
and mourn 

Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn! 

Mourn, and lament for him whose 
spirit dreads 

Your once sweet memory, studious 
walks and shades ! 

For him who to divinity aspired, 

Not on the breath of popular ap- 
plause, 

But through dependence on the 
sacred laws 

Framed in the schools where Wisdom 
dwelt retired. 

Intent to trace the ideal path of right 

I More fair than heaven's broad cause- 
way paved with stars) 

Wliich Dion learned to measure with 
delight; 

But He hath overleaped the eternal 
bars; 

And, following guides whose craft 
holds no consent 

With aught that breathes the ethe- 
real element. 

Hath stained the robes of civil power 
with blood. 

Unjustly shed, though for the public 
good. 

Whence doubts that came too late, 
and wishes vain, 

Hollow excuses, and triumphant 
pain ; 



And oft his cogitations sink as low 
As, through the abysses of a joyless 

heart, 
The heaviest pliunmet of despair 

can go — 
But whence that sudden check ? that 
fearful start ! 
He hears an uncouth sound — 
Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky 

bound, 
A shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round 
and round ! 
A woman's garb the Phantom 

wore, 
And fiercely swept the marble 

floor, — 
Like Auster whirling to and fro. 
His force on Caspian foam to try ; 
Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
Or when aloft on Msenalus he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree 
tops I 

"Avaunt, inexplicable Guest! — 

avaunt," 
Exclaimed the chieftain . . . 
But Shapes that come not at an 

earthly call, 
Will not depart when mortal voices 

bid; 
Lords of the visionary eye whose 

lid. 
Once raised, remains aghast, and 

will not fall ! 

Ill-fated Chief! there are whose 

hopes are built 
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 
WTio, through the portals of one 

moment's guilt, 
Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 
O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
Of monstrous crime ! — that horror- 
striking blade, 
Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath 

laid 
The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 
Shuddered the walls, — the marble 

city wept, — 
And sylvan places heaved a pensive 

sigh; 
But in calm peace the appomted 

Victim slept, 
As he had fallen, in magnanimity 
Of spirit too capacious to require 



476 



PAENASSUS. 



That Destiny her course should 

change ; too just 
To his own native greatness to desire 
That wretched boon, days lengthened 

by mistrust. 
So were the hopeless troubles, that 

involved 
The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
Keleased from life and cares of 

princely state. 
He left this moral grafted on his 

Fate : 
" Him only pleasure leads, and peace 

attends. 
Him, only him, the shield of Jove 

defends. 
Whose means are fair and spotless 

as his end." 

WOBDSWOKTH. 



HOSEA BIGLOW'S LAMENT. 

Beaver roars hoarse with melting 

snows. 
And rattles diamonds from his gran- 
ite; 
Time was he snatched away my 

prose. 
And into psalms or satires ran it ; 
But he, and all the rest that once 
Started my blood to contra dances 
Find me and leave me but a dunce 
That has no use for dreams and fan- 
cies. 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle through the street, 
I hear the drummers making riot. 
And I sit thinking of the feet 
That followed once and now are 

quiet, — 
White feet as snow-drops innocent. 
That never knew the paths of Satan, 
Sad ears that listened as they went. 
Lifelong to hear them come will wait 

on. 

Have I not held them on my knee ? 
Did I not love to see them growing, 
Three likely lads as well could be, 
Handsome and brave, and not too 
knowing ? 

I sit and look into the blaze. 
Whose nature, just like theirs, keeps 

climbing 
Long as it lives in shining ways, 
And half despise myself for rhyming. 



What's talk to them whose faith and 

truth 
On War's red touchstone rang true 

metal. 
Who ventured life and love and 

youth 
For the great prize of death in battle ? 

To him who, deadly hurt, again 
Flashed on before the charge's thun- 
der. 
Tipping with fire the bolt of men 
That rived the Rebel line asunder ? 

Come Peace, not like a mourner 

bowed 
For honor lost and dear ones wasted. 
But proud, to meet a people proud. 
With eyes that tell of triumph tasted. 

Come with hand gripping on the 

hilt. 
And step that proves you Victory's 

daughter ! 
Longing for you, our spirits wilt 
Like shipwrecked men on rafts for 

water. 

Come, while our Country feels the lift 

Of a great instinct shouting For- 
wards, 

And knows that Freedom's not a 
gift 

That tarries long in hands of cowards. 

Come, such as mothers prayed for, 

when 
They kissed their cross with lips that 

quivered. 
And bring fair wages for brave men, 
A Nation saved, a Race delivered. 

Lowell. 



OTHELLO'S LAST WORDS. 

Soft you ; a word or two before you 

go. 

I have done the state some service, 
and they know it : 

No more of that. — I pray you, in 
your letters, 

When you shall these unlucky deeds 
relate, 

Speak of me as I am; nothing ex- 
tenuate. 

Nor set down aught in malice : then 
must you speak 



DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. 



477 



Of one that loved, not wisely, but too 

well ; 
Of one not easily jealous, but, being 

wrought, 
Perplexed in the extreme; of one 

whose hand, 
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl 

away 
Richer than all his tribe; of one 

whose subdued eyes, 
Albeit unused to the melting mood. 
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian 

trees 



Their medicinal gum. Set you down 

this, 
And say, besides, that in Aleppo 

once. 
Where a malignant and a turbaned 

Turk 
Beat a Venetian, and traduced the 

state, 
I took by the throat the circumcisfed 

dog, 
And smote him — thus. [Stabs himr 

self. 

Shakspeabe. 



X. 

\ COMIC AND HUMOROUS. 
i 

SATIRICAL. 



COMIC AISTD HUMOEOUS. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PKAYEK. 

Thou, wha in the Heavens dost 

dwell, 
"Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 
Sends ane to Heaven, and ten to 
Hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And no for onie guid or ill 

They've done afore thee! 

1 bless and praise thy matchless 

might. 
Whan thousands thou hast left in 

night. 
That I am here afore thy sight. 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burning an' a shining light. 
To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation. 
That I should get such exaltation ? 
I, wha deserve such just damnation, 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my crea- 
tion. 

Through Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I 

fell. 
Thou might hae plunged me into 

Hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and 
wail. 

In buriiin' lake, 
AVliere damned Devils roar and yell, 
Chained to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample. 
To show thy grace is great and am- 
ple; 
I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example 

To a' thy flock. 



O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink, and swearerfi 

swear. 
And singing there, and dancing here, 

Wi' great and sma' : 
For I am keepit by thy fear. 

Free frae them a'. 

But yet, O Lord ! confess I must. 
At times I'm fashed wi' fleshly lust. 
An' sometimes, too, wi' worldly 
trust, — 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defiled in sin. 



Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn. 
Lest he owre high and proud should 
turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted: 
If sae, thy hand maun e'en be 
borne, 

Until thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
But God confound their stubborn 
face, 

And blast their name, 
Wlia bring thy elders to disgrace, 

An' public shame. 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's de- 
serts. 
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at 

cartes. 
Yet has sae monie takin' arts, 
Wi' great and sma', 
Frae God's ain priests the people's 
hearts 

He steals awa'. 
481 



482 



PARNASSUS. 



An' when we chastened him there- 
fore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 

O' laugliin' at us ; — 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry an' prayer, 
Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr; 
Thy strong right hand. Lord, make 
it bare, 

Upo' their heads ; 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna 
spare. 

For their misdeeds. 

O Lord my God, that glib-tongued 

Aiken, 
My very heart and saul are qualcin' , 
To think how we stood sweatin', 

shakin', 

An' swat wi' dread, 
While he wi' hinging lips gaed snak- 

^^'' . 

An' hid his head. 

Lord, in the day o' vengeance try 

him. 
Lord, visit them wha did employ 

him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their prayer : 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, 
And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may 
shine. 

Excelled by nane. 
An' a' the glory shall be thine. 
Amen, Amen. 

Burns. 



TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE 
RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel', 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and 
tell 

Tour Neebor's fauts and folly! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill. 

Supplied wi' store o' water, 
The heapet happer's ebbing still. 

And still the clap plays clatter. 



Hear me, ye venerable Core, 

As counsel for poor mortals. 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's 
door, 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mis- 
takes. 

Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the niffer. 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What makes the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hidin'. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What raging must his veins con- 
vulse. 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way : 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an unco leeway. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmugrified, they're 
grown 

Debauchei-y and Drinking : 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 

Tied up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor Frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear-loved lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan yo^ir brother Man, 

Still gentler sister Woman, 
Though they may gang a kennie 
wraug. 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving Why they do it; 
And just as lamely can ye mark 

How far pei'haps they rue it. 



CO^^C AND HUMOROUS. 



483 



WTio made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various 
tone, 

Each spring — its various bias: 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it : 
What's done we partly may com- 
pute. 

But Icnow not what's resisted. 

BUKNS. 



TO THE DEVIL. 

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might, — I diuua ken, 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to tliink upon yon den, 

Even for your sake ! 

BUKNS. 



THE ORIGm OF DIDACTIC 
POETRY. 

When wise Minerva still was young, 

And just the least romantic. 
Soon after from Jove's head she 
flung. 

That preternatural antic, 
' Tis said to keep from idleness 

Or flirting, — those twin ciu'ses, — 
She spent her leisure, more or less, 

In writing po — , no, verses. 

How nice they were ! to rhyme with 
far, 

A kind star did not tarry ; 
The metre, too, was regular 

As schoolboy's dot and carry; 
And full they were of pious plums. 

So extra-super-moral, — 
For sucking Virtue's tender gums 

Most tooth-enticing coral. 

A clean, fair copy she prepares. 

Makes sure of moods and tenses, 
With her own hand, — for prudence 
spares 

A man- (or woman) -uensis; 
Complete, and tied with ribbons 
proud, 

She hinted soon how cosey a 
Treat it would be to read them loud 

After next day's Ambrosia. 



The Gods thought not it would 
amuse 

So much as Homer's Odyssees, 
But could not very well refuse 

The properest of Goddesses ; 
So all sat round in attitudes 

Of various dejection. 
As with a hein ! the queen of prudes 

Began her grave prelection. 

At the first pause Zeus said, "Well 
sung ! — 
I mean — ask Phoebus, — he 
knows." 
Says Phoebus, "Zounds I a wolf's 
among 
Admetus's merinos! 
Fine ! very fine ! but I must go ; 

They stand in need of me there ; 
Excuse me!" snatched his stick, 

and so 
Plunged down the gladdened ether. 

With the next gap, Mars said, " For 
me 
Don't wait, — nought could be 
finer, 
But I'm engaged at half -past three, — 

A fight in Asia Minor ! ' ' 
Then Venus lisped, "How very 
thad! 
It raiutli down there in torrinth; 
But I mutht go, becauthe they've 
had 
A thacrifithe in Corinth!" 

Then Bacchus, — " With those slam- 
ming doors 
I lost the last half dist — (hie!) 
Mos' bu'ful se'ments! what's the 
Chor's? 
My voice shall not be missed — 
(hie!)" 
His words woke Hermes ; " Ah ! " he 
said, 
" I so love moral theses ! " 
Then winked at Hebe, who turned 
red. 
And smoothed her apron's creases. 

Just then Zeus snored, — the Eagle 
drew 
His head the wing from under ; 
Zeus snored, — o'er startled Greece 
there flew 
The many-volumed thunder; 
Some augurs counted nine, — some, 
ten, — 



484 



PAKNASStfS. 



Some said, 'twas war, some, fam- 
ine, — 
And all, that other-minded men 
Would get a precious . 

Proud Pallas sighed, " It will not do ; 

Against the Muse I've sinned, 
oh!" 
iVnd her torn rhymes sent flying 
through 

Olympus' s back window. 
Then, packing up a peplus clean. 

She took the shortest path thence, 
And opened, with a mind serene, 

A Sunday school in Athens. 

The verses ? Some in ocean swilled, 

Killed every fish that bit to 'em ; 
Some Galen caught, and, when dis- 
tilled. 

Found morphine the residuum ; 
But some that rotted on the earth 

Sprang up again in copies. 
And gave two strong narcotics 
birth, — 

Didactic bards and poppies. 

Years after, when a poet asked 

The Goddess's opinion. 
As being one whose soul had basked 

In Art's clear-aired dominion, — 
"Discriminate," she said, "be- 
times ; 

The Muse is unforgiving ; 
Put all your beauty in your rhymes. 

Your morals in your living." 

Lowell. 



TAM O' SHANTER. 

When chapman billies leave the 

street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late. 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
Wliile we sit bousing at the nappy, 
A-u' getting fou and unco happy, 
We thiiikna on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Wliare sits our suUcy sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering 

storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
This truth fand honest Tarn O' 

Shauter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 



(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town sur- 
passes. 

For honest men and bonnie lasses). 
O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae 
wise. 

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! 

She tauld thee weel thou wast a 
skellum, 

A blethering, blustering, drunkei? 
blellum ; 

That frae November till October, 

Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; 

That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 

That every naig was ca'd a shoe on. 

The smith and thee gat roaring fou 
on; 

That at the Lord's house, even on 
Sunday, 

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till 
Monday. 

She prophesied that, late or soon, 

Thou would be found deep drowned 
In Doon : 

Or catched wi' warlocks i' the mirk, 

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me 
greet. 

To think how mony counsels sweet. 

How mony lengthened, sage advices, 

The husband frae the wife despises ! 
But to our tale : Ae market night, 

Tam had got planted unco right ; 

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 

Wi' reaming swats, that drank di- 
vinely ; 

And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 

His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 

Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; 

They had been fou for weeks the- 
gither. 

The night drave on wi' sangs and 
clatter ; 

And ay the ale was growing better : 

The landlady and Tam grew gra- 
cious, 

Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and pre- 
cious : 

The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 

The landlord's laugh was ready cho- 
rus: 

The storm without might rair and 
rustle, 

Tam did na mind the storm a whis- 
tle. 
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 

E'en drowned himself amang the 



I 



nappy 



COMIC AMD HUMOROUS. 



485 



As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treas- 
ure, 
The minutes winged their way wi' 

pleasure : 
Kings may be blessed, but Tarn was 

glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 
But pleasures are like poppies 

spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is 

shed ; 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for- 
ever; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their 

place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; — 
The hour approaches Tarn maun 

ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the 

key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his 

beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in. 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad -in. 
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its 

last; 
The rattling showers rose on the 

blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness 

swallowed ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder 

bellowed : 
That night, a child might under- 
stand. 
The Deil had business on his hand. 
Weel mounted on his gray mare, 

Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on through dub and 

mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue 

bonnet; 
Wliiles crooning o'er some auld Scots 

sonnet ; 
Whiles glowering round wi' prudent 

cares. 
Lest bogles catA him unawares ; 
Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh, 
■Whare ghaists and houlets nightly 

cry. 
By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman 

smoored ; 



And past the birks and meikle-stane, 

Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck- 
bane ; 

And through the whins, and by the 
cairn, 

Whare hunters fand the murdered 
bairn : 

Ajad near the thorn, aboon the well, 

Whare Mungo's mither hanged her- 
sel. 

Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 

The doubling storm roars through 
the woods ; 

The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 

Near and more near the thunders 
roll: 

When, glimmering thro' the groan- 
ing trees, 

Kirk Alloway seemed in a bleeze ; 

Through ilka bore the beams were 
glancing ; 

And loud resounded mirth and dan- 
cing. 
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou canst make us 
scorn ! 

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil! 

The swats sae reamed in Tammie's 
noddle, 

Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair aston- 
ished. 

Till, by the heel and hand admon- 
ished, 

She ventured forward on the light ; 

And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and 
reels. 

Put life and mettle in their heels. 

At winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' 
beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and 
large, 

To gie them music was his charge : 

He screwed the pipes and gart them 
skirl. 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

Coflins stood round, like open 
presses. 

That shawed the dead in their last 
dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantrip slight, 

Each in its cauld hand held a 
light,— 



486 



PARNASSUS. 



By which heroic Tom was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened 
bairns : 

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; 

Five tomahawks, wi' blude red 
rusted ; 

Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had stran- 
gled ; 

A knife, a father's throat had man- 
gled, 

Wliom his ain son o' life bereft, 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Wi' niair o' horrible and awfu'. 

Which even to name wad be unlaw- 
fu'. 
As Tammie glowered, amazed and 
curious, 

The mirth and fun grew fast and fu- 
rious : 

The piper loud and louder blew ; 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 

They reeled, they set, they crossed, 
they cleekit, 

Till ilka carlin sweat and reekit. 

And coost her duddies to the wark, 

And linket at it in her sark ! 
Now Tam, O Tarn ! had thae been 
queans, 

A' plump and strapping in their 
teens ; 

Their sarks, instead o' creeshie fian- 
nen. 

Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder 
linnen ! 

Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 

That ance were plush, o' gude blue 
hair, 

I wad hae gi'en them off my hur- 
dles. 

For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 
But withered beldams, auld and 
droll, 

Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 

Lowping and flinging on a crum- 
mock, 

I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
But Tam kend what was what fu' 
brawlie, 

"There was ae winsome wench and 
walie," 

That night enlisted in the core, 

(Lang after kend on Carrick shore ; 

For inony a beast to dead she shot, 

And perished mony a bonnie boat. 



And shook baith meikle corn and 

bear. 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 
Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley ham. 
That, while a lassie, she had worn, 
In longitude though sorely scanty, 
It was her best and she was vaunt- 

ie. — 
Ah! little kend thy reverend gran- 
nie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nan- 
nie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her 

riches,) 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 
But here my muse her wing maun 
cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang 
(A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
And how Tam stood, like ane be- 
witched. 
And thought his very e'en enriched ; 
Even Satan glowered, and fidged fu' 

fain. 
And botched and blew wi' might and 

main : 
Till first ane caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty- 
sark ! ' ' 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their 

byke; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop! she starts before their 

nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
Wlien, "Catch the thief!" resounds 

aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' monie an eldritch screech and 
hollow. 
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get 
thy f airin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a her- 

rin! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
Thei-e at them thou thy tail may 

toss, 
A running stream they dare ua 
cross. 



I 



COMIC AND HUMOROUS. 



487 



But ere the key-stane she could 

make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upou noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's met- 
tle— 
Ae spring brought off her master 

hale. 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carliu caught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall 
read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er 

dear, 
Kemember Tarn O' Shanter's mare. 

BUBNS. 



THE WITCH OF FIFE. 

"Where have ye been, ye ill wo- 
man. 
These three lang nights frae 
hame? 
What gars the sweat drap frae yer 
brow. 
Like drops o' the saut sea-faem ? 

"It fears me muckle ye have seen 
What gude man never knew ; 

It fears me muckle ye have been. 
Where the gray cock never crew. 

" But the spell may crack, and the 
bridle break. 
Then sharp yer word will be ; 
Ye had better sleep in yer bed at 
hame, 
Wi' yer dear little bairns and 
me." 

"Sit dune, sit dune, my leal auld 
man, 

Sit dune, and listen to me ; 
I'll gar the hair stand on yer crown, 

And the cauld sweat blind yer e'e. 

" But tell nae words, my gude auld 
man. 

Tell never a word again ; 
Or dear shall be your courtesy. 

And driche and sair yer pain. 



" The first leet night, when the new 
moon set, 
Wlien all was douffe and mirk. 
We saddled our nags wi' the moon- 
fern leaf. 
And rode frae Kilmerrin kirk. 

"Some horses were of the brume- 
cow framed. 
And some of the green bay tree ; 
But mine was made of ane hemlock 
shaw. 
And a stout stallion was he. 

" We raide the tod doune on the hill, 

The martin on the law ; 
And we hunted the owlet out o' 
breath. 

And forced him doune to fa'." 

" Whatguid was that, ye ill woman? 

WTiat guid was that to thee ? 
Ye would better have been in yer bed 
at hame, 
Wi' yer dear little bairns and 
me." — 

"And aye we rode, as sae merrily rode, 
Through the merkest gloffs of the 

night; 
And we swam the flood, and we 

darnit the wood, 
Till we came to the Lommond 

height. 

" And when we came to the Lom- 
mond height, 
Sae lightly we lighted doune ; 
And we drank frae the horns that 
never grew, 
The beer that was never browin. 

" Then up there rose a wee wee man, 
From neath the moss-gray stane ; 

His face was wan like the colliflower, 
For he neither had blude nor bane. 

" He set a reed-pipe till his mouth ; 

And he played sae bonnily. 
Till the gray curlew, and the black- 
cock flew 

To listen his melodye. 

" It rang sae sweet through the green 
Lommond, 

That the night-wind lowner blew; 
And it soupit alang the Loch Leven, 

And wakened the white sea-mew. 



488 



PARNASSUS. 



" It rang sae sweet througli the green 
Lommond, 
Sae sweetly and sae slirill, 
That the weasels leaped out of their 
mouldy holes, 
And danced on the midnight hill. 

" The corby crow came gledging near, 
The erne gaed veering bye ; 

And the trouts leaped out of the 
Leven Loch, 
Charmed with the melodye. 

" And aye we danced on the green 
Lommond, 

Till the dawn on the ocean grew : 
Nae wonder I was a weary wight 

When I cam hame to you." — 

" What guid, what guid, my weird, 
weird wyfe, 
What guid was that to thee ? 
Te wad better have been in yer bed 
at hame, 
Wi' yer dear little bairns and 
me." — 

"The second night, when the new 
moon set, 

O'er the roaring sea we flew; 
The cockle-shell our trusty bark, 

Our sails of the green sea-rue. 

" And the bauld winds blew, and the 
fire-flauchts flew. 
And the sea ran to the sky ; 
And the thunder it growled, and the 
sea-dogs howled. 
As we gaed scurrying by. 

*' And aye we mounted the sea-green 
hills, 
Till we brushed through the clouds 
of heaven, 
Then soused downright like the 
stern-shot light, 
Fra the lift's blue casement driven. 

" But our tackle stood, and our bark 
was good, 
And sae pang was our pearly prow ; 
When we couldna speil the brow of 
the waves. 
We needled them through below. 

" As fast as the hail, as fast as the 
gale, 
As fast as the midnight leme, 



We bored the breast of the bursting 
swale, 
Or fluffed in the floating faem. 

"And when to the Norroway shore 
we wan. 
We mounted our steeds of the wind. 
And we splashed the floode, and we 
darnit the wood. 
And we left the shore behind. 

" Fleet is the roe on the green Lom- 
mond, 
And swift is the couryng grew ; 
The rein-deer dun can eithly run, 
When the hounds and the horns 
pursue. 

" But neither the roe, nor the rein- 
deer dun. 
The hind nor the couryng grew. 
Could fly o'er mountain, moor, and 
dale. 
As our braw steeds they flew. 

"The dales were deep, and the Dof- 
frins steep, 
And we rose to the skies ee-bree : 
White, white was our road that was 
never trode, 
O'er the snows of eternity. 

" And when we came to the Lapland 
lone, 

The fairies were all in array, 
For all the genii of the north 

Were keeping their holiday. 

" The warlock men and the weird 
women. 
And the fays of the wood and the 
steep. 
And the phantom hunters all were 
there. 
And the mermaids of the deep. 

" And they washed us all with the 
witch-water, 
Distilled frae the moorland dew, 
Till our beauty bloomed like the 
Lapland rose. 
That wild in the foreste grew." — 

" Ye lee, ye lee, ye ill woman, 

Sae loud as I hear ye lee ! 
For the ■vforst-faured wyfe on the 
shores of Fyfe 

Is comely compared wi' thee." — 



COMIC AND HUMOROUS. 



489 



" Then the mermaids sang, and the 
woodlands rang, 

Sae sweetly swelled the choir; 
On eveiy cliffe a harp they hang, 

On every tree a lyre. 

" And aye they sang, and the wood- 
lands rang, 
And we drank, and we drank sae 
deep; 
Then soft in the arms of the warlock 
men, 
We laid us dune to sleep." — 

" Away, away, ye ill woman. 
An ill death might ye dee ! 

When ye hae proved sae false to yer 
God, 
Ye can never prove true to me." — 

"And there we learned frae the fairy 
folk. 
And frae our master true. 
The words that can bear us through 
the air, 
And locks and bars undo. 

" Last night we met at Maisry's cot ; 

Right well the words we knew ; 
And we set a foot on the black 
cruik-shell, 
And out at the lum we flew. 
* 
"And we flew o'er hill, and we flew 
o'er dale, 
And we flew o'er firth and sea, 
Untill we cam to merry Carlisle, 
Where we lighted on the lea. 

" We gaed to the vault beyond the 
tower. 
Where we entered free as air ; 
And we drank, and we drank of the 
bishop's wine 
Till we could drink nae mair." — 

" Gin that be true, my gude auld 
wyfe, 

Wliilk thou hast tauld to me, 
Betide my death, betide my lyfe, 

I'll bear thee company. 

" Next time ye gang to merry Car- 
lisle 

To drink of the blude-red wine, 
Beshrew my heart, I'll fly with thee, 

If the deil should fly behind." — 



"Ah! little ye ken, my silly auld 
man, 
The dangers we maun dree ; 
Last night we drank of the bishop's 
wine, 
Till near near taen were we. 

" Afore we wan to the sandy ford. 
The gor-cocks nichering flew ; 

The lofty crest of Ettrick Pen 
Was waved about with blue. 

And, flichtering through the air, we 
fand 
The chill chill morning dew. 

" As we flew o'er the hills of Braid, 
The sun rose fair and clear; 

There gurly James, and his barons 
braw. 
Were out to hunt the deer. 

" Their bows they drew, their arrows 
flew, 

And pierced the air with speed, 
Till purple fell the morning dew 

With witch-blude rank and red. 

"Little ye ken, my silly auld man. 
The dangers we maun dree ; 

Ne wonder I am a weary wight 
When I come hame to thee." — 

" But tell me the word, my gude 
auld wyfe. 
Come tell it me speedily ; 
For I long to drink of the gude red 
wine, 
And to wing the air with thee. 

" Yer hellish horse I willna ride, 
Nor sail the seas in the wind ; 

But I can flee as well as thee, 
And I'll drink till ye be blind." 

" O fy ! O fy ! my leal auld man. 

That word I darena tell ; 
It would turn this warld all upside 
down, 

And make it warse than hell. 

" For all the lasses in the land 
Wald mount the wind and fly ; 

And the men would doff their dou- 
blets syde, 
And after them would ply." — 



490 



PAEFASSUS. 



But the aiild gude man was a cun- 
ning auld man, 
And a cunning auld man was he ; 
And he watched and he watched 
for mony a night, 
The witches' flight to see. 

One night he darnit in Maisry's cot; 

The fearless hags came in ; 
And he heard the word of awesome 
weird ; 

And he saw their deeds of sin. 

Then ane by ane, they said that word, 
As fast to the fire they drew ; 

Then set a foot on the black cruik- 
shell, 
And out at the lum they flew. 

The auld gudeman came f rae his hole 
With fear and muckle dread. 

But yet he couldna think to rue, 
For the wine came in his head. 

He set his foot in the black cruik- 
shell, 
With a fixed and a wawling ee ; 
And he said the word that I darena 
say, 
And out at the lum flew he. 

The witches scaled the moon-beam 
pale; 
Deep groaned the trembling wind ; 
But they never wist that our auld 
gudeman 
Was hovering them behind. 

They flew to the vaults of merry 

Carlisle, 

Where they entered free as air ; 

And they drank, and they drank of 

the bishop's wine 

Till they coulde drink nae mair. 

The auld gudeman he grew sae 

crouse. 

He danced on the mouldy ground. 

And he sang the bonniest songs of 

Fife, 

And he tuzzlit the kerlyngs round. 

And aye he pierced the tither butt. 
And he sucked, and he sucked sae 
lang. 
Till his een they closed, and his 
voice grew low, 
And his tongue would hardly gang. 



The kerlyngs drank of the bishop's 
wine 
Till they scented the morning 
wind; 
Then clove again the yielding air, 
And left the auld man behinde. 

And aye he slept on the damp damp 
floor, 
He slept and he snored amain ; 
He never dreamed he was far frae 
hame, 
Or that the auld wives were gane. 

And aye he slept on the damp damp 
floor, 
Till past the mid-day heighte. 
When wakened by five rough Eng- 
lishmen, 
That trailed him to the lighte. 

" Now wha are ye, ye silly auld man. 
That sleeps sae sound and sae 
weel? 

How gat ye into the bishop's vault 
Through locks and bars of steel ? " 

The auld gudeman he tried to speak, 

But ane word he couldna finde ; 
He tried to think, but his head 
whirled round, 
And ane thing he couldna minde : 
"I cam frae Fyfe," the auld man 
cried, 
"And I cam on the midnight 
winde." 

They nicked the auld man, and they 
pricked the auld man. 
And they yerked his limbs with 
twine. 
Till the red blude ran in his hose 
and shoon, 
But some cried it was wine. 

They licked the auld man, and they 
pricked the auld man, 

And they tyed him till ane stone ; 
And they set ane bele-fire him about, 

To burn him skin and bone. 

" O wae to me ! " said the puir auld 
man, 

" That ever I saw the day! 
And wae be to all the ill women 

That lead puir men astray ! 



COMIC AND HUMOROUS. 



491 



" Let nevir ane auld man after this 
To lawless greede incline ; 

Let never ane auld man after this 
Rin post to the deil for wine." 

The reeke flew up in the auld man's 
face, 
And choked him bitterlye ; 
And the low cam up with an angry 
blaze, 
And he singed his auld breek-nee. 

He looked to the land frae whence 
he came, 
For looks he coulde get ne mae ; 
And he thoughte of his dear little 
bairns at hame, 
And O the auld man was wae ! 

But they turned their faces to the 

sun, 

With gloffe and wonderous glare. 

For they saw ane thing baith large 

and dun, 

Comin sweeping down the aire. 

That bird it cam frae the lands o' 
Fife, 
And it cam right tymeouslye, 
For who was it but the auld man's 
wife, 
Just corned his death to see. 

She put ane red cap on his heade, 
And the auld gudeman looked fain, 

Then whispered ane word intil his 
lug, 
And toved to the aire again. 

The auld gudeman he gae ane bob 
I' the midst o' the burning lowe ; 

And the shackles that bound him to 
the ring, 
They fell frae his arms like towe. 

He drew his breath, and he said the 
word, 
And he said it with muckle glee. 
Then set his feet on the burning 
pile. 
And away to the aire flew he. 

Till ance he cleared the swirling 
reeke. 
He lukit baith feared and sad ; 
But when he wan to the light blue 
aire, 
He laughed as he'd been mad. 



His arms were spread, and his heade 
was highe. 
And his feet stuck out behinde ; 
And the laibies of the auld man's 
coat 
Were wauflBng in the wind. 

And aye he neicherit, and aye he flew, 
For he thought the play sae rare ; 

It was like the voice of the gander 
blue. 
When he flees through the aire. 

He looked back to the Carlisle men 
As he bored the norlan sky ; 

He nodded his heade, and gave ane 
girn 
But he never said gude-bye. 

They vanished far i' the lift's blue 
wale, 
Nae maire the English saw, 
But the auld man's lauglie came on 
the gale, 
With a lang and a loud gaffaw. 

May everilke man in the land of Fife 
Read what the drinker's dree; 

And never curse his puir auld wife, 
Righte wicked altho she be. 

Hogg. 



COLLUSION BETWEEN A ALE- 
GAITER AND A WATER-SNAIK. 

TRIUMPH OF THE WATER-SNAIK: 
DETH OF THE ALEGAITEK. 

" There Is a niland on a river lying, 
Which runs into Gautimaly, a warm 

country. 
Lying near the Tropicks, covered 

with sand ; 
Hear and their a symptum of a 

Wilow, 
Hanging of its umberagious limbs 

& branches 
Over the clear streme meandering 

far below. 
This was the home of the now silent 

Alegaiter, 
When not in his other element con- 
fine' d: 
Here he wood set upon his eggs 

asleep 
With 1 ey observant of flis and 

other passing 



492 



PARNASSUS. 



1 



Objects : a while it kept a going on so : 
Fereles of danger was the happy 

Alegaiter ! 
But a las! in a nevil our he was 

fourced to 
Wake! that dreme of Blis was two 

sweet for him. 
1 morning the sun arose with un- 

usool splender 
Whitch allso did our Alegaiter, com- 
ing from the water, 
His scails a flinging of the rais of the 

son back, 
To the fountain-head which tha 

originly sprung, 
But having not had nothing to eat 

for some time, he 
Was slepy and gap'd, in a short 

time, widely. 
Unfoalding soon a welth of perl- 
white teth, 
The rais of the son soon shet his 

sinister ey 
Because of their mutool splendor 

and warmth. 
The evil Our (which I sed) was now 

come; 
Evidently a good chans for a water 

snaik 
Of the large specie, which soon 

appeared 
Into the horison, near the bank 

where repos'd 
Calmly in slepe the Alegaiter before 

spoken of. 
About 60 feet was his Length (not 

the 'gaiter) 
And he was aperiently a well-pro- 
portioned snaik. 
When he was all ashore he glared 

upon 
The iland with approval, but was soon 
* Astonished with the view and lost 

to wonder' (from Wats) 
(For jest then he began to see the 

Alegaiter) 
Being a nateral enemy of his'n, he 

worked hisself 
Into a fury, also a ni position. 
Before the Alegaiter well could ope 
His eye (in other words perceive his 

danger) 
The Snaik had enveloped his body 

just 19 
Times with ' foalds voluminous and 

vast' (from Milton) 
And had tore off several scails in the 

confusion. 



Besides squeazing him awfully into 
his stomoc. 

Just then, by a fortinate turn in his 
affairs, 

He ceazed into his mouth the care- 
less tale 

Of the unreflecting water-snaikl 
Grown desperate 

He, finding that his tale was fast 
squesed 

Terrible while they roaled all over 
the iland. 

It was a well-conduckted Affair ; no 

noise 
Disturbed the harmony of the seen, 

ecsept 
Onct when a Wilow was snaped into 

by the roaling. 
Eeach of the combatence hadn't a 

minit for holering. 
So the conflick was naterally tremen- 

jous! 
But soon by grate force the tale was 

bit complete- 
Ly of ; but the eggzeration was too 

much 
For his delicate Constitootion : he 

felt a compression 
Onto his chest and generally over 

his body ; 
When he ecspress'd his breathing, 

it was with 
Grate difficulty that he felt inspired 

again onct more. 
Of course this State must suffer a 

revolootion. 
So the Alegaiter give but one yel, 

and egspired. 
The water-snaik realed hisself off, 

& survay'd 
For say 10 minits, the condition of 
His fo : then wondering what made 

his tail hurt, 
He sloly went off for to cool." 

J. W. MOKKIS. 



THE DEACON'S MASTEEPIECE, 
OR THE WONDERFUL " ONE- 
HOSS-SHAY." 

A LOGICAL STOKY. 

Have you heard of the wonderful 

one-hoss-shay, 
That was built in such a logical way . 
It ran a hundred years to a day. 



COUnC AND HUMOROUS. 



493 



And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but 

stay, 
I'll tell you what happened without 

delay, 
Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening people out of their 

wits, — 
Have you ever heard of that, I say ? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georiiius Secundus was then alive, — 
Snuffy old drone from the German 

hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her 

down. 
And Braddock's army was done so 

brown. 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one- 

hoss-shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell 

you what, 
There is always somewhere a weakest 

spot, — 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — 

lurking still, 
Find it somewhere you must and 

will, — 
Above or below, or within or with- 
out, — 
And that's the reason, beyond a 

doubt, 
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't 

wear out. 

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacon's 

do, 
With an " I dew vum," or an " I tell 

yeou,") 
He would build one shay to beat the 

taown 
'n' the keountry 'n' all the kentry 

raoun' ; 
It should be so built that it couldn' 

break daown : 
— "Fur," said the Deacon, '"t's 

mighty plain 
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' 

the strain ; 
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain. 

Is only jest 
T' make that place uz strong uz the 

rest." 



So the Deacon inquired of the village 

folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak, 
That couldn't be split nor bent nor 

broke, — 
That was for spokes and floor and 

sills ; 
He sent for lancewood to make the 

thills ; 
The crossbars were ash, from the 

straightest trees ; 
The panels of white-wood, that 

cuts like cheese, 
But lasts like iron for things like 

these ; 
The hubs of logs from the " Settler's 

ellum," — 
Last of its timber, — they couldn't 

sell 'em. 
Never an axe had seen their chips. 
And the wedges flew from between 

tlieir lips. 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery- 
tips; 
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and 

wide; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old 

hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner 

died. 
That was the way he "put her 

through." — 
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow 

she'll dew!" 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 

She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 

Colts grew horses, beards turned 
gray. 

Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 

Children and grandchildren — where 
were they? 

But there stood the stout old one- 
hoss-shay 

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake- 
day! 

Eighteen hundred ; — it came and 

found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong 

and sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by 

ten; — 
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it 

then. 



494 



PARNASSUS. 



Eighteen hundred and twenty came ; 
Kunning as usual ; much the same. 
Thirty and Forty at last arrive, 
And then come Fifty and Fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth 
year 

Without both feeling and looking 
queer. 

In fact, there's nothing that keeps 
its youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large; 

Take it. You're welcome. No ex- 
tra charge. ) 

First of November, — the Earth- 
quake-day. — 

There are traces of age in the one- 
hoss-shay, 

A general flavor of mild decay, 

But nothing local as one may say. 

There couldn't be, — for the Dea- 
con's art 

Had made it so like in every part 

That there wasn't a chance for one 
to start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as 
the thills. 

And the floor was just as strong as 
the sills. 

And the panels just as strong as 
the floor, 

And the whippletree neither less nor 
more. 

And the back-crossbar as strong as 
the fore. 

And spring and axle and hub encore. 

And yet, as a whole, it is past a 
doubt 

In another hour it will be worn out ! 

First of November, Fifty-five! 
This morning the parson takes a 

drive. 
Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss- 

shay. 
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked 

bay. 
" Huddup ! " said the parson. — Off 

went they. 

The Parson was working his Sun- 
day's text, — 

Had got to fifthly, and stopped per- 
plexed 



I 



At what the — Moses — was coming 

next. 
All at once the horse stood still, 
Close by the meet' n' -house on the 

hill. 11 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill, I 
Then something decidedly like a 

spill, — 
And the parson was sitting upon a 

rock. 
At half past nine by the meet'n'- 

house clock, — 
Just the hour of the Earthquake 

shock ! 

— Wliat do you think the parson 

found, 
When he got up and stared around ? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or 

moixnd. 
As if it had been to the mill and 

ground ! 
You see, of course, if you're not a 

dunce. 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 
All at once, and nothing first, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay. 
Logic is logic. That's all I say. 

O. W. Holmes. 



THE COUKTIN.' 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown, 
An' peeked in thru' the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to liender. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung 
An' in amongst 'em rusted 

The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther 
Young 
Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur, 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple, 

Tlie side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 



.OMIC AND HUMORCJJ. 



495 



Bhe thought no v'ice hed sech a 
swmg 

Ez hisn in the choir; 
My ! when he made Ole Himderd ring, 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she'd bhish scarlit, right in 
prayer, 

When her new meetin'-bunnet 
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 

O' blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 

She seemed to've gut a new soul. 
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She beared a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
A-raspin' on the scraper, — 

All ways to once her feelin's flew 
Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 
Some doubtfle o' the sekle. 

His heart kep' goin' pity-pat. 
But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ? " 
"Wal ... no ... I come da- 
signin' " — 
"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' 
cLo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals act so or so, 
Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 

Mebby to mean yes an' say no 
Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 
Then stood a spell on t'other, 

An' on which one he felt the wust 
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " Fd better call agin ; " 
Says she, "Think likely. Mister;" 

That last word pricked him like a pin. 
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
A-ll kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 



For she was jes' the quiet kind 
Whose naturs never vary, 

Like streams that keep a summer 
mind 
Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt 
glued 

Too tight for all expressin', 
Tell mother see how metters stood, 

And gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 

An' all I know is they was cried 
In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 

Lowell : Biglow Papers. 



HER LETTER. 

I'm sitting alone by the fire. 
Dressed just as I came from the dance. 
In a robe even you would admire, ^ 
It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
I'm bediamonded out of all reason, 
My hair is done up in a cue : 
In short, sir, "the belle of the sea- 
son" 
Is wasting an hour on you. 

A dozen engagements I've broken; 
I left in the midst of a set ; 
Likewise a proposal, half spoken. 
That waits — on the stairs — for me 

yet. 
They say he'll be rich, — when he 

grows up, — 
And then he adores me indeed. 
And you,sir,are turning your nose up. 
Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

" And how do I like my position ? " 
" And what do I think of New 

York?" 
" And now, in my higher ambition, 
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ? " 
"And isn't it nice to have riches. 
And diamonds and silks, and all 

that?" 
"And aren't it a change to the 

ditches 
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" 

Well yes, — if you saw us out driving 
Each day in the park, four-in-hand ; 
If you saw poor dear mamma con- 
triving 
To look supernaturally grand, — 



496 



PARNASSUS. 



If you saw papa's picture, as taken 
By Brady, and tinted at tliat, — 
You'd never suspect he sold bacon 
And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, just tliis moment, when 

sitting 
In tlie glare of the grand chandelier. 
In the bustle and glitter befitting 
The "finest soiree of the year," — 
In the mists of a gaze de chambery 
And the hum of the smallest of 

talk, — 
Somehow, Joe, I thought of "The 

Ferry," 
And the dance that we had on " The 

Fork;" 

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 

Of flags festooned over the wall ; 

Of the candles that shed their soft 
lustre 

And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 

Of the steps that we took to one fid- 
dle; 

Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; 

And how I once went down the 
middle 

With the man that shot Sandy 
McGee ; 

Of the moon that was quietly sleep- 
ing 
On the hill, when the time came to 

go; 

Of the few baby peaks that were 

peeping 
From under their bed-clothes of 

snow; 
Of that ride, — that to me was the 

rarest ; 
Of — the something you said at the 

gate: 
Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress 
To "the best-paying lead in the 

State." 

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny 
To think, as I stood in the glare 
Of fashion and beauty and money, 
That I should be thinking, right 

there, 
Of some one who breasted high water. 
And swam the North Fork, and 

all that, 
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's 

daughter, 
The Lily of Poverty Flat. 



But goodness! what nonsense I'm 

writing ! 
(Mamma says my taste still is low,) 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 
I'm spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho! 
And I'm to be "finished" by travel, 
Whatever's the meaning of that, — 
O, why did papa strike pay gravel 
In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 

Good-night, — here's the end of my 

paper ; 
Good-night, — if the longitude 

please, — 
For maybe, while wasting my taper, 
Your sun's climbing over the trees. 
But know, if you haven't got riches, 
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
That my heart's somewhere there in 

the ditches, 
And you've struck it, — on Poverty 

Flat. 

Bket Harte. 



HIS ANSWER TO "HER LET- 
TER." 

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES. 

Being asked by an intimate party — 
Which the same I would term as a 
friend — 
Which his health it were vain to call 
hearty, 
Since the mind to deceit it might 
lend; 
For his arm it was broken quite re- 
cent, 
And has something gone wrong 
with his lung, — 
Which is why it is proper and decent 
I should write what he nms off 
his tongue. 

First, he says. Miss, he's read through 
your letter 
To the end, — and the end came 
too soon. 
That a slight illness kept him your 
debtor 
(Which for weeks he was wild as a 
loon), 
That his spirits are buoyant as yours 
is; 
That with you. Miss, he challen- 
ges Fate, 
( Which the language that invalid uses 
At times it were vain to relate). 



I 



COMIC AliD HUMOROUS. 



497 



iLnd he says that the mountains are 
fairer 
For once being held in your 
thought ; 
That each rock holds a wealth that 
is rarer 
Than ever by gold-seeker sought — 
(Which are words he would put in 
these pages, 
By a party not given to guile ; 
Which thj! same not, at date, paying 
wages. 
Might produce in the sinful a 
smile. ) 

He remembers the ball at the Ferry, 
And the ride, and the gate, and 
the vow. 
And the rose that you gave him — 
that very 
Same rose he is treasuring now ; 
(Which his blanket he's kicked on 
his trunk, Miss, 
And insists on his legs being free ; 
And his language to me from his 
bunk, Miss, 
Is frequent and painful and free. ) 

He hopes you are wearing no willows. 
But are happy and gay all the 
while ; 
That he knows — (which this dodg- 
ing of pillows 
Imparts but small ease to the style. 
And the same you will pardon) — 
he knows. Miss, 
That, though parted by many a 
mile. 
Yet, were he lying under the snows, 
Miss, 
They'd melt into tears at your 
smile. 

And you'll still think of him in your 
pleasures. 
In your brief twilight-dreams of 
the past. 
In this green laurel-spray that he 
treasures. 
It was plucked where your parting 
was last. 
In this specimen — but a small tri- 
fle- 
It will do for a pin for your shawl ; 
(Which the truth not to wickedly 
stifle. 
Was his last week's " clean up " — 
and his all. ) 
32 



He's asleep — which the same might 

seem strange, Miss, 
Were it not that I scorn to deny 
That I raised his last dose for a 
change. Miss, 
In view that his fever was high, 
But he lies there quite peaceful and 
pensive ; 
And, now, my respects. Miss, to 
you; 
Which, my language, although com- 
prehensive. 
Might seem to be freedom — it's 
true. 

WTiich I have a small favor to ask 
you, 
As concerns a bull-pup, which the 
same — 
If the duty would not overtask you — 
You would please to procure for 
me, game, 
And send per express to the Flat, 
Miss, 
Which they say York is famed for 
the breed. 
Which though words of deceit may 
be that — Miss, 
I'll trust to your taste, Miss, in- 
deed. 

P. S. — Which this same interfering 

In other folks' ways I despise — 
Yet, if so be I was hearing 
That it's just empty pockets as 
lies 
Betwixt you and Joseph — it foUers 

That, having no family claims. 
Here's my pile — which it's six hun- 
dred dollars. 
As is, yom-s, with respects, — 
Truthful, James. 

Bret Harte. 



ATHEISM. 

"There is no God," the wicked 

saith, 
"And truly it's a blessing, 
For what he might have done with us 
It's better only guessing." 

"There is no God," a youngster 

thinks, 
" Or really if there may be, 
He surely didn't mean a man 
Always to be a baby." 



498 



PARNASSUS. 



"Wliether there be," the rich man 

thinks, 
*' It matters very little, 
Jpor I and mine, thank somebody, 
Are not in want of victual." 

Some others also to themselves 
Who scarce so much as doubt it, 
Think there is none, when they are 

well, 
And do not think about it. 

But country-folks who live beneath 
The shadow of the steeple ; 
The parson, and the parson's wife. 
And mostly married people ; 

Youths green and happy in first love. 

So thankful for illusion ; 

And men caught out in what the 

world 
Calls guilt and first confusion ; 

And almost every one when age, 
Disease, and sorrow strike him, — 
Inclines to think there is a God, 
Or something very like him. 

A. H. Clough. 



DOROTHY Q. 

A FAMILY PORTRAIT. 

Grandmother's mother; her age, 

I guess. 
Thirteen summers, or something 

less; 
Girlish bust, but womanly air, 
Smooth, square forehead, with up- 
rolled hair. 
Lips that lover has never kissed, 
Taper fingers and slender wrist. 
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade — 
So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 
Sits unmoving and broods serene; 
Hold up the canvas full in view — 
Look! there's a rent the light shines 

through. 
Dark with a century's fringe of 

dust, — 
That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust! 
Such is the tale the lady old, 
Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. 



Who the painter was none may tell, — 
One whose best was not over well ; 
Hard and dry, it must be confessed. 
Flat as a rose that has long been 

pressed ; 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Dainty colors of red and white ; 
And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 

Dorothy Q. was a lady born ! 

Ay! since the galloping Normans 

came, 
England's annals have known her 

name; 
And still to the three-hilled rebel 

town 
Dear is that ancient name's renown, 
For many a civic wreath they won. 
The youthful sire and the gray- 
haired son. 

O damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! 
Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; 
Such a gift as never a king 
Save to daughter or son might 

bring — 
All my tenure of heart and hand, 
All my title to house and land ; 
Mother and sister, and child and 

wife. 
And joy and sorrow, and death and 

life! 

What if a hundred years ago 
Those close-shut lips had answered, 

No, 
When forth the tremulous question 

came 
That cost the maiden her Norman 

name; 
And under the folds that look so still 
The bodice swelled with the bosom's 

thrill ? 
Should I be I, or would it be 
One-tenth another to nine-tenths 

me? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 
Not the light gossamer stirs with 

less; 
But never a cable that holds so fast 
Through all the battles of wave and 

blast. 
And never an echo of speech or song 
That lives in the babbling air so 

long! 



] 



COMIC AND HUMOROUS. 



499 



There were tones in the voice that 

whispered tlien 
You may hear to-day in a hundred 

men! 

lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your images hover, and here we are, 
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
Edward's and Dorothy's — all their 

own — 
A goodly record for time to show 
Of a syllable spoken so long ago ! — 
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive. 
For the tender whisper that bade me 

live? 

It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 

1 will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's 

blade, 

And freshen the gold of the tar- 
nished frame. 

And gild with a rhyme your house- 
hold name. 

So you shall smile on us brave and 
bright 

As first you greeted the morning's 
light, 

And live untroubled by woes and fears 

Through a second youth of a hun- 
dred years. 

O. W. Holmes, 



CONTENTMENT. 

" Mau wauts but little here below." 

Little I ask ; my wants are few ; 

I only wish a hut of stone, 
(A very plain brown stone will do,) 

That I may call my own ; — 
And close at hand is such a one, 
In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me ; 

Three courses are as good as ten ; — 
If Nature can subsist on three, 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! 
I always thought cold victual nice ; — 
My choice would be vanilla ice. 

I care not much for gold or land ; — 
Give me a mortgage here and 
there, — 
Some good bank-stock, — some note 
of hand, 
Or trifling railroad share; — 
I only ask that Fortune send 
A little more than I shall spend. 



Honors are silly toys, I know. 

And titles are but empty names ; — 
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — 
But only near St. James ; — 
I'm very sure I should not care 
To fill our Gubernator's chair. 

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin 
To care for such unfruitful 
things ; — 
One good-sized diamond in a pin, — 

Some, not so large, in rings, — 
A ruby, and a pearl, or so. 
Will do for me ; — I laugh at show. 

My dame should dress in cheap 
attire ; 
(Good, heavy silks are never 
dear;) — 
I own perhaps I might desire 

Some shawls of true cashmere, — 
Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

I would not have the horse I drive 
So fast that folks must stop and 
stare ; 
An easy gait — two, forty-five — 
Suits me ; I do not care ; — 
Perhaps, for just a single spurt. 
Some seconds less would do no hurt. 

Of pictures, I should like to own 
Titians and Raphaels three or 
four, — 
I love so much their style and tone, — 

One Turner, and no more, — 
(A landscape, — foreground golden 

dirt; 
The sunshine painted with a squirt. ) 

Of books but few, — some fifty score 
For daily use, and bound for wear ; 
The rest upon an upper floor; — 

Some little luxury there 
Of red morocco's gilded gleam. 
And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things 
as these, 
Which others of ten show for pride, 
I value for their power to please. 
And selfish churls deride ; — 
One Stradivarius, I confess. 
Two Meerschaums, I would fain 
possess. 



500 



PARNASSUS. 



Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not 
learn, 
Nor ape the glittering upstart 
fool ; — 
Shall not carved tables serve my 
turn, 
But all must be of buhl ? 
Give grasping pomp its double 

, share, — 
I ask but one recumbent chair. 

Thus humble let me live and die. 

Nor long for Midas' golden touch, 
If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 

I shall not miss them much, — 
Too grateful for the blessing lent 
Of simple tastes and mind content ! 
O. W. Holmes. 



THE FIGHT OVER THE BODY 
OF KEITT. 

A fragment from the great American epic, 
tlie Washingtoniad. 

Sing, O goddess, the wrath, the on- 
tamable dander of Keitt — 

Keitt of South Carolina, the clear 
grit, the tall, the ondaunted — 

Him that hath wopped his own nig- 
gers till Northerners all unto 
Keitt 

Seem but as niggers to wop, and hills 
of the smallest potatoes. 

Late and long was the fight on the 
Constitution of Kansas ; 

Daylight passed into dusk, and dusk 
into lighting of gas-lamps ; — 

Still on the floor of the house the 
heroes unwearied were fight- 
ing. 

Dry grew palates and tongues with 
excitement and expectoration. 

Plugs were becoming exhausted, and 
Representatives also. 

Who led on to the war the anti- 
Lecomptonite phalanx? 

Grow, hitting straight from the 
shoulder, the Pennsylvania 
Slasher; 

Him followed Hickman, and Potter 
the wiry, from woody Wiscon- 
sin; 

Washburne stood with his brother, — 
Cadwallader stood with Elihu ; 

Broad Illinois sent the one, and 
woody Wisconsin the other. 



Mott came mild as new milk, with. 

gray hairs under his broad 

brim. 
Leaving the first chop location and 

water privilege near it. 
Held by his fathers of old on the 

willow-fringed banks of Ohio. 
Wrathy Covode, too, I saw, and 

Montgomery ready for mis- 
chief. 
Wlio against these to the floor led on 

the Lecomptonite legions ? 
Keitt of Sovith Carolina, the clear 

grit, the tall, the ondaunted — 
Keitt, and Reuben Davis, the ra'al 

boss of wild Mississijjpi ; 
Barksdale, wearer of wigs, and 

Craige from North Carolina ; 
Craige and scorny McQueen, and 

Owen, and Lovejoy, and La- 
mar, 
These Mississippi sent to the war, 

" tres juncti in uno.^' 
Long had raged the warfare of 

words; it was foui' in the 

morning : 
Whittling and expectoration and 

liquorin' all were exhausted, 
Wlien Keitt, tired of talk, bespake 

Reu. Davis, " O Reuben, 
Grow's a tarnation blackguard, and 

I've concluded to clinch him." 
This said, up to his feet he sprang, 

and loos' ning his choker, 
Straighted himself for a grip, as a 

bar-hunter down in Arkan- 
sas 
Squares to go in at the bar, when 

the dangerous varmint is cor- 
nered. 
" Come out. Grow," he cried, " you 

Black Republican puppy. 
Come on the floor, like a man, and 

darn my eyes, but I'll show 

you" — 
Him answered straight-hitting Grow, 

" Waal now, I calkilate, Keitt, 
No nigger-driver shall leave his plan- 
tation in Sovith Carolina, 
Here to crack his cow-hide round 

this child's ears, if he knows 

it." 
Scarce had he spoke when the hand, 

the chivalrous five fingers of 

Keitt, 
Clutched at his throat, — had they 

closed, the speeches of Gi'ow 

had been ended, — 



COMIC AND HUMOROUS. 



501 



Never more from a stump had he 

stirred up the free and en- 

Hghtened ; — 
But though smart Keitt's mauleys, 

the mauleys of Grow were still 

smarter; 
Straight from the shoulder he shot, — 

not Owen Swift or Ned Adams 
Ever put in his right with more del- 
icate feeling of distance. 
As drops hammer on anvil, so 

dropped Grow's right into 

Keitt 
Just where the jugular runs to the 

point at which Ketch ties his 

drop-knot ; — 
Prone like a log sank Keitt, his dol- 
lars rattled about him. 
Forth sprang his friends o'er the 

body ; first, Barksdale, waving- 

wig-wearer, 
Craige and McQueen and Davis, the 

ra'al boss of wild Mississippi; 
Fiercely they gathered round Grow, 

catawampously up as to chaw 

him; 
But without Potter they reckoned, 

the wiry from woody Wiscon- 
sin; 
He, striking out right and left, like 

a catamount varmint and 

vicious. 
Dashed to the rescue, and with him 

the Washburnes, Cadwallader, 

Elihu; 
Slick into Barksdale's bread-basket 

walked Potter's one, two, — 

hard and heavy ; 
Barksdale fetched wind in a trice, 

dropped Grow, and let out at 

Elihu. 
Then like a fountain had flowed the 

claret of Washburne the elder. 
But for Cadwallader's care, — Cad- 
wallader, guard of his brother. 
Clutching at Barksdale's nob, into 

Chancery soon would have 

drawn it. 
Well was it then for Barksdale, the 

wig that waved over his fore- 
• head : 
Off in Cadwallader's hands it came, 

and, the wearer releasing, 
Left to the conqueror nought but the 

scalp of his baldheaded foe- 
man. 
Meanwhile hither and thither, a dove 

on the waters of trouble, 



Moved Mott, mild as new milk, with 

his gray hair under his broad 

brim, 
Preaching peace to deaf ears, and 

getting considerably damaged 
Cautious Covode in the rear, as du- 
bious what it might come to. 
Brandished a stone-ware spittoon 

'gainst whoever might seem to 

deserve it, — 
Little it mattered to him whether 

Pro or Anti-Lecompton, 
So but he found in the Hall a foeman 

worthy his weapon ! 
So raged this battle of men, till into 

the thick of the meUe, 
Like to the heralds of old, stepped 

the Sergeant-at-Ai'ms and the 

Speaker. 

London Punch. 



PUEITANS. 

Cue brethren of New England use 
Choice malefactors to excvise. 
And hang the guiltless in their stead. 
Of whom the churches have less 

need; 
As late it happened in a town 
Where lived a cobbler, and but one, 
That out of doctrine could cut use, 
And mend men's lives as well as shoes. 
This precious brother having slain 
In times of peace an Indian, 
Not out of malice, but mere zeal. 
Because he was an infidel ; 
The mighty Tottipotimoy 
Sent to our elders an envoy, 
Complaining loudly of the breach 
Of league held forth by brother 

Patch, 
Against the articles in force 
Between both churches, his and 

ours ; 
For which he craved the saints to 

render 
Into his hands, or hang the offender. 
But they maturely having weighed 
They had no more but him of the 

trade, 
A man that served them in the double 
Capacity to teach and cobble, 
Eesolved to spare him ; yet to do 
The Indian Hogan Mogan too 
Impartial justice, in his stead did 
Hang an old weaver that was bedrid. 

BUTLEB. 



502 



PARNASSUS. 



II 



THE OLD COVE. 



" All we ask is to be let alone." 

As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp, 
There sot an Old Cove in the dark 

and damp, 
And at everybody as passed that road 
A stick or a stone this Old Cove 

throwed. 
And venever he flung his stick or 

his stone, 
He'd set up a song of "Let me 

alone." 

" Let me alone, for I loves to shy 
These bits of things at the passers 

by- 
Let me alone, for I've got your tin 
And lots of other traps snugly in ; — 
Let me alone, I'm riggin a boat 
To grab votever you've got afloat ; — 
In a veek or so I expects to come 
And turn you out of your 'ouse and 

'ome ; — 
I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, vith 

a groan : 
" All I axes is — Let me alone." 

Just then came along on the self- 
same vay. 
Another Old Cove, and began for to 

say — 
" Let you alone ! That's comin' it 

strong ! — 
Tou've ben let alone — a darned sight 

too long ; — 
Of all the sarce that ever I heerd ! 
Put down that stick! (You may 

well look skeered. ) 
Let go that stone! If you once 

show fight, 
I'll knock you higher than ary kite. 
You must hev a lesson to stop your 

tricks, 
And cure you of shying them stones 

and sticks, — 
An I'll hev my hardware back and 

my cash. 
And knock your scow into tarnal 

smash. 
And if ever I catches you 'round 

my ranch, 
I'll string you up to the nearest 

branch. 

The best you can do is to go to bed. 
And keep a decent tongue in your 
head; 



For I reckon, before you and I are 

done. 
You'll wish you had let honest folks 

alone." 
The Old Cove stopped, and the 

t'other Old Cove 
He sot quite still in his cypress grove. 
And he looked at his stick revolvin' 

slow 
Vhether 'twere safe to shy it or 

no, — 
And he grumbled on, in an injured 

tone, 
" All that I axed vos, let me alone" 
H. H. Bkownell. 



JOVE AND THE SOULS. 

Amazed, confused, its fate un- 
known. 
The world stood trembling at Jove's 

throne ; 
While each pale sinner hung his head, 
Jove nodding shook the heavens, 

and said ; 
" Offending race of human kind. 
By nature, reason, learning, blind ; 
You who through frailty stepped 

aside. 
And you who never erred through 

pride ; 
You who in different sects were 

shammed, 
And come to see each other damned ; 
(So some folks told you, but they 

knew 
No more of Jove's designs than you. ) 
The world's mad business now is o'er, 
And I resent your freaks no more ; 
I to such blockheads set my wit, 
I damn such fools — go, go, you're 

bit!" 

Swift. 

CHIQUITA. 

Beautiful! Sir, you may say so. 
Thar isn't her match in the 
county. 

Is thar, old gal, — Chiquita, my 
darling, my beauty ? 

Feel of that neck, sir, — thar's vel- 
vet ! Whoa ! 

Steady, — ah, will you, you vixen ! 

Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; 
let the gentleman look at her 
paces. 



I 



COMIC AND HUMOROUS. 



603 



Morgan! — She ain't nothin' else, 
and I've got the papers to 
prove it. 

Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve 
hundred dollars won't buy her. 

Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did 
you know Briggs of Tuo- 
lumne ? — 

Busted hisself in Wliite Pine, and 
blew out his brains down in 
'Frisco? 

Hedn't no savey — hed Briggs. 

Thar, Jack! that'll do, — quit 

that foolin' ! 
Nothin' to what she kin do, when 

she's got her work cut out 

before her. 
Hosses is bosses, you know, and 

likewise, too, jockeys is jock- 
eys; 
And 'tain't ev'ry man as can ride as 

knows what a hoss has got in 

him. 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that 

nearly got Flanigan's leaders ? 
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a 

mighty rough ford in low 

water ! 
Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me 

and the Jedge and his nevey 
Struck for that ford in the night, in 

the rain and the water all 

round us ; 

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and 

Kattlesnake Creek just a bilin'. 
Not a plank left in the dam, and 

nary a bridge on the river. 
I had the gray, and the Jedge had 

his roan, and his nevey, Chi- 

quita ; 
And after us trundled the rocks jest 

loosed from the top of the 

cafion. 

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to 

the ford, and Chiquita 
Buckled right down to her work, 

and afore I could yell to her 

rider. 
Took water jest at the ford, and 

there was the Jedge and me 

standing, 
^d twelve hundred dollars of hoss- 

flesh afloat, and a driftin' to 

thunder ! 



Would ye b'lieve it? that night that 

hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita, 
Walked herself into her stall, and 

stood there, all quiet and 

dripping : 
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary 

a buckle of harness. 
Just as she swam to the Fork, — that 

hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita. 

That's what I call a hoss! and — 

What did you say? — O, the 

nevey ? 
Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, 

he never kem back to deny it. 
Ye see, the derned fool had no seat, 

— ye couldn't have made him 

a rider ; 
And then, ye know, boys will be 

boys, and hosses — well, 

hosses is hosses ! 

Bbet Haete. 



KUDOLPH THE HEADSMAN. 

Rudolph, professor of the heads- 
man's trade, 
Alike was famous for his arm and 

blade. 
One day a prisoner Justice had to 

kill 
Knelt at the block to test the artist's 

skill. 
Bare armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, 

and shaggy-browed, 
Rudolph the headsman rose above 

the crowd. 
His falchion lightened with a sudden 

gleam. 
As the pike's armor flashes in the 

stream. 
He sheathed his blade ; he turned as 

if to go ; 
The victim knelt, still waiting for 

the blow. 
"Why strikest not? Perform thy 

murderous act," 
The prisoner said. (His voice was 

slightly cracked.) 
"Friend, I have struck," the artist 

straight replied ; 
" Wait but one moment, and your- 
self decide." 
He held his snuff-box, — " Now 

then, if you please!" 
The prisoner sniffed, and, with % 

crashing sneeze, 



504 



PARNASSUS. 



Off his head tumbled, — bowled along 

the floor, — 
Bounced down the steps; — the 

prisoner said no more ! 

O. W. Holmes. 



THE FRIEND OF HUMAJSTITY 
AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 

FBIEND OF HUMANITY. 

Needy knife-grinder! whither are 

you going? 
Rough is the road; your wheel is 

out of order. 
Bleak blows the blast; — your hat 

has got a hole in 't; 
So have your breeches I 

Weary knife-grinder ! little think the 

proud ones, 
Who in their coaches roll along the 

turnpike- 
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all 

day, " Knives and 
Scissors to grind O." 

Tell me, knife-grinder, how came 

you to grind knives ? 
Did some rich man tyrannically use 

you? 
Was it the squire ? or parson of the 

parish ? 
Or the attorney ? 

Was it the squire for killing of his 
game ? or 

Covetous parson for his tithes dis- 
training ? 

Or roguish lawyer made you lose 
your little 
All in a lawsuit ? 

(Have you not read the Rights of 
Man by Tom Paine ?) 

Drops of compassion tremble on my 
eyelids, 

Ready to fall as soon as you have 
told your 
Pitiful story. 

KNIFE-GEINDEB. 

Story ! God bless you ! I have none 

to tell, sir ; 
Only, last night, a drinking at the 

Chequers, 



This poor old hat and breeches, as 
you see, were 
Torn in a scuffle. 

Constables came up for to take me 

into 
Custody; they took me before the 

justice ; 
Justice Oldmixon put me in the 

parish- 
Stocks for a vagrant. 

I should be glad to drink your 

honor's health in 
A pot of beer, if you will give me 

sixpence ; 
But for my part, I never love to 

meddle 
With politics, sir. 

FRIEND OF HXTMANITY. 

I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee 

damned first, — 
Wretch! whom no sense of wrong 

can rouse to vengeance, — 
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, de 

graded. 
Spiritless outcast ! 

[Kicks the knife-grinder, ovei'turm 
his wlieel, and exit in a transport of 
republican enthusiasm and univei'sai 
philanthropy.] 

Geobqe Canning. 



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM 
TRUTHFUL JAMES. 

(table MOUNTAIN, 1870.) 

Which I wish to remark — 
And my language is plain — 

That for ways that are dark. 
And for tricks that are vain, 

The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 
Which the same I would rise to 
explain. 

Ah Sin was his name ; 
And I shall not deny 
In regard to the same 

What that name might imply. 
But his smile it was pensive and 
childlike. 
As I frequent remarked to Bill 
Nye. 



COMIC AND HUMOROUS, 



505 



/t was Aujjiist the third ; 

And quite soft was the skies: 
Wliieh it might be inferred 

Tluit Ah yiii was lil^ewise ; 
Yet lie played it that day upon Wil- 
liam 

And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 
And Ah Sin took a hand : 

It was euchre. The same 
He did not understand ; 

But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
With the smile that was childlike 
and bland. 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve. 
And my feelings were shocked 
At the state of Nye's sleeve; 
Which was stuffed full of aces and 
bowers, 
And the same with intent to de- 
ceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee, 
And the points that he made. 

Were quite frightful to see — 
Till at last he put down a right bower, 

■Which the same Nye had dealt 
unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 
And he gazed upon me ; 
And he rose with a sigh, 

And said, " Can this be? 
We are ruined by Chinese cheap 
labor" — 
And he went for that heathen 
Chinee, 

In the scene that ensued 
I did not take a hand ; 
But the floor it was strewed 

Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been 
hiding, 
In the game "he did not under- 
stand," 

In his sleeves, which were long. 

He had twenty-four packs — 
Which was coming it strong. 

Yet I state but the facts ; 
And we found on his nails, which 
were taper, 
Wliat is frequent in tapers — that's 
wax. 



Which is why I remark. 

And my language is plain. 
That for ways that are dark, 

And for tricks that are vain. 
The heathen Chinese is peculiar — 
Which the same I am free to 
maintain, 

Bket Harte. 



THE COSMIC EGG. 

Upon a rock yet uncreate, 

Amid a chaos inchoate. 

An uncreated being sate ; 

Beneath him, rock. 

Above him, cloud. 

And the cloud was rock, 

And the rock was cloud. 

The rock then growing soft and 

warm, 
The cloud began to take a form, 
A form chaotic, vast and vague, 
Which issued in the cosmic egg. 
Then the Being uncreate 
On the egg did incubate, 
And thus became the incubator; 
And of the egg did allegate. 
And thus became the alligator ; 
And the incubator was potentate, 
But the alligator was potentator. 

Anonymous. 



MIGNONETTE, 

As I sit at my desk by the window, 
when the garden with dew is 
wet. 

On the morning incense rises the 
breath of the mignonette, 

Laden with tender memories of thir- 
ty years ago, 

When she gave me her worthless 
promise, and we loved each 
otlier so, 

Till her tough old worldly mother 
let her maiden charms be sold 

To a miser, as hard and yellow as 
his hoard of shining gold. 

As in Central Park I met them on 
their cheerful morning ride, 

As she snarled at her henpecked hus- 
band who was crouching by 
her side, 



50(5 



PARNASSUS. 



I thought in the dust of the path- 
way, " I have the best of you 
yet!" 

Far better the dream of a fadeless 
love in the breath of the mign- 
onette, 

And little Alice and Mabel, and the 
children that might have been, 

Come dancing out on the paper at a 
twirl of the magic pen, — 

Not a horrid boy among them, but a 
bevy of little girls 

With great brown eyes, love-shining, 
'mid a halo of golden curls. 



They never grow old or naughty; 

and in them I fail to see 
The slightest fault or taint of sin 

which could have been charged 

to me. 
They are mine, all mine forever! 

No lover to them can come. 
To steal away their loving hearts to 

grace a doubtful home. 
And so, when the tender evening or 

morning with dew is wet, 
I dream of my vanished darlings in 

the breath of the mignonette. 
' Geobge B. Baetlett, 



XI. 



POETRY OF TERROB. 



" There are points from which we can command our life, 
"When the soul sweeps the Future like a glass, 
And coming things full freighted with our fate 
Jut out dark on the offing of the mind." — Bailey : Festus. 



POETRY OF TERROR. 



TUKNEK. 

He works in rings, in magic rings of 
chance ; 

He knows that grand effects oft run 
askance, 

And so he prays to Nature, color- 
queen. 

He works in chaoses, — you are no 
artist, 

You medium-man who power to 
write impartest ; 

Suffice to know he loveth Chaos old, 

Because than aught created she's 
more bold : 

And so he worketh ruleless, not to fix, 

And freeze and stiffen, but to weld 
. and mix. 

That many elements thus got together 

May struggle into light. — 

And she loves possibility, and hence 

He goes far back into Confusion's 
dance. 

So the old Temeraire, (ah England ! 
long 

That happiness shall live within 
thy song,) 

Lets natural ways rush through him ; 
so may you. 

If you have brain and strength and 
dare to do. 

Believe me, there are ways of paint- 
ing things 

That are allied to the great Morn- 
ing's wings. 

J. J. G. Wilkinson. 



THE TIGER. 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright. 
In the forests of the night ; 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 



In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the fire of thine eyes ? 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art. 
Could twist the sinews of thine 

heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand ? and what dread 

feet? 

What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their 

spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did he smile his work to see ? 
Did He, Who made the Lamb, make 

thee? 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright. 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
William Blake. 



THEA. 

LEANiNa with parted lips, some 

words she spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ 

tone: 
Some mourning words, which, in 

our feeble tongue, 
Would come in these like accents; 

O how frail 
To that large utterance of the early 

Gods I 

Keats. 

509 



510 



PARNASSUS. 



SONG OF THE PAKC^. 

IPHIGENIA. 

Within my ears resounds tliat an- 
cient song, — 

Forgotten was it, and forgotten 
gladly, — 

Song of the Parcse, whicli they shud- 
dering sang. 

When Tantalus fell from his golden 
seat. 

They suffered with their noble 
friend; indignant 

Their bosom was, and terrible their 
song. 

To me and to my sisters, in our youth. 

The nurse would sing it; and I 
marked it well. 

" The Gods be youi- terror, 
Ye children of men ! 
They hold the dominion 
In hands everlasting, 
All free to exert it 
As listeth their will. 

" Let him fear them doubly 
Whome'er they've exalted! 
On crags and on cloud-piles 
The couches are planted 
Around the gold tables. 

" Dissension arises ; 
Then tumble the feasters, 
Reviled and dishonored, 
In gulfs of deep midnight ; 
And look ever vainly 
In fetters of darkness 
For judgment that's just. 

" But they remain seated 

At feasts never failing 

Around the gold tables. 

They stride at a footstep 

From mountain to mountain ; 

Through jaws of abysses 

Steams towards them the breathing 

Of suffocate Titans, 

Like offerings of incense, 

A light-rising vapor. 

" They turn — the proud masters — 

From whole generations 

The eye of their blessing ; 

Nor will in the children, 

The once well-beloved, 

Still eloquent features 

Of ancestor see." 



So sang the dark sisters ; 
The old exile heareth 
That terrible music 
In caverns of darkness, — 
Remembereth his children. 
And shaketh his head. 

Goethe : Trans, by Frothingham. 



CRIME. 

Between the acting of a dreadful 
thing 

And the first motion, all the interim is 

Like a phantasma, or a hideous 
dream : 

The genius and the mortal instru- 
ments 

Are then in council ; and the state 
of man, 

Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 

The nature of an insurrection. 

Shakspeajbe : Julius Ccesar. 

To beguile the time, 
Look like the time. 

Shakspeabe: Macbeth. 



REMORSE. 

Methought I heard a voice cry, 

" Sleep no more ! 
Macbeth doth murder sleep,^' — the 

innocent sleep. 
Sleep that knits up the ravelled 

sleeve of care. 
The death of each day's life, sore 

labor's bath. 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's 

second course. 
Chief nourisher in life's feast, — 
Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to 

all the house : 
" Glamis hath murdered sleep; and 

therefore Cawdor 
Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall 

sleep no more ! " 

Shakspeabe: Macbeth. 

Macbeth 
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers 

above 
Put on their instruments. 

When we in our viciousness grow 

hard, 
O misery on't I the wise gods seal our 

eyes; 



] 



POETRY OF TERROR. 



511 



In our own filth, drop our clear 

judgments ; make us 
Adore our errors, laugh at us, while 

we strut 
To our confusion. 

Antony and Cleopatra. 

I SEE men's judgments are 
A parcel of their fortunes; and 

things outward 
To draw the inward quality after 

them 
To suffer all alike. 

Antony and Cleopatra, iii. sc. 2. 

The gods sere just, and of our pleas- 
ant vices 
Make instrtunents to scourge us. 

K. Lear. 

Mekciful Heaven ! 

Thou rather, with thy sharp and 

sulphurous bolt 
Split' st the unwedgeable and gnarlfed 

oak. 
Than the soft myrtle ; — O, but 

man, proud man ! 
Drest in a little brief authority. 
Most ignorant of what he's most 

assured, 
His glassy essence, — like an angry 

ape, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before 

high heaven, 
As make the angels weep. 

Measure for Measure. 



CLARENCE'S DREAM. 

Clarence. — O, I have passed a 

miserable night, 
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly 

sights, 
That, as I am a Christian faithful 

man, 
I would not spend another such a 

night. 
Though 'twere to buy a world of 

happy days ; 
So full of dismal terror was the 

time. 
Brakenbury. — What was your 

dream, my lord? I pray you, 

tell me. 
Clar. — Methought that I had bro- 
ken from the Tower, 



And was embarked to cross to Bur- 
gundy; 

And in my company, my brother 
Gloster: 

Who from my cabin, tempted me to 
walk 

Upon the hatches : thence we looked 
toward England, 

And cited up a thousand heavy 
times. 

During the wars of York and Lan- 
caster 

That had befallen us. As we paced 
along 

Upon the giddy footing of the 
hatches, 

Methought that Gloster stumbled; 
and, in falling. 

Struck me, that thought to stay him, 
overboard. 

Into the tumbling billows of the main. 

O heaven ! methought what pain it 
was to drown ! 

What dreadful noise of water in 
mine ears ! 

What sights of ugly death within 
mine eyes ! 

Methought I saw a thousand fearful 
wrecks ; 

A thousand men, that fishes gnawed 
upon; 

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps 
of pearl. 

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 
All scattered in the bottom of the 
sea. 

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and 
in those holes 

Where eyes did once inhabit, there 
were crept 

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflect- 
ing gems, 

That wooed the slimy bottom of the 
deep. 

And mocked the dead bones that lay 
scattered by. 
Brak. — Had you such leisure in 
the time of death 

To gaze upon these secrets of the 
deep? 
Clar. — Methought I had : and 
often did I strive 

To yield the ghost : but still the en- 
vious flood 

Kept in my soul, and would not let 
it forth 

To seek the empty, vast, and wan- 
dering air ; 



512 



PAP.NASSUS. 



But smothered it within my panting 

bulk, 
Which almost burst to belch it in 

the sea. 
Brak. — Awaked you not with this 

sore agony ? 
Clar. — O, no, my dream was 

lengthened after life, 
O, then began the tempest to my soul ! 
I passed, methought, the melancholy 

flood. 
With that grim ferryman which 

poets write of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual 

night. 
The first that there did greet my 

stranger soul, 
Was my great father-in-law, re- 
nowned Warwick, 
Who cried aloud, — "What scourge 

for perjury 
Can this dark monarchy afford false 

Clarence?" 
And so he vanished : then came wan- 
dering by 
A shadow like an angel, with bright 

hair 
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked 

out aloud, — 
"Clarence is come, — false, fleeting, 

perjured Clarence, — 
That stabbed me in the field by 

Tewksbury ; — 
Seize on him. Furies, take him to 

your torments!" 
With that, methought, a legion of 

foul fiends 
Environed me, and howled in mine 

ears 
Such hideous cries, that with the 

very noise, 
I trembling waked, and, for a season 

after. 
Could not believe but that I was in 

hell. 
Such teri'ible impression made my 

dream. 

Shakspeake. 



HESITATION. 

Lady Macbeth. — Yet do I fear thy 

nature ; 
It is too full o' the milk of human 

kindness, 
To catch the nearest way: thou 

wouldst be great ; 



Art not without ambition ; but with- 
out 
The illness should attend it. What 

thou wouldst highly. 
That wouldst thou holily; wouldsT. 

not play false. 
And yet wouldst wrongly win; 

thou'dst have, great Glamis, 
That which cries, Thus thou must 

do, if thou have it ; 
And that which rather thou dost 

fear to do. 
Than wishest should be undone. 

Hie thee hither. 
That I may pour my spirits in thine 

ear; 
And chastise with the valor of my 

tongue 
All that impedes thee from the 

golden round, 
Which fate and metaphysical aid 

doth seem 
To have thee crowned withal. 

Shakspeabe: Macbeth. 

This army 
Led by a delicate and tender prince, 
Whose spirit, with divine ambition 

puffed. 
Makes mouths at the invisible event, 
Exposing what is mortal and unsure 
To all that fortune, death, and dan- 
ger dare, 
Even for an egg-shell. 

Shakspeare: Hamlet. 



THE CORSAIE, 

Theee was a laughing devil in his 

sneer, 
That raised emotions both of rage 

and fear ; 
And where his frown of hatred 

darkly fell, 
Hope withering fled, — and Mercy 

sighed farewell ! 

Bybon. 



MANFEED. 

INCANTATION. 

When the moon is on the wave, 
And the glow-worm in the grass, 

And the meteor on the grave, 
And the wisp on the morass ; 



POETRY OF TERROR. 



513 



When the falling stars are shooting, 
And the answered owls are hooting, 
And tlie silent leaves are still 
In the shadow of the hill. 
Shall my sonl be npon thine. 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 
There are shades which will not 

vanish, 
Tl^e are thoughts thou canst not 

banish ; 
By a power to thee unknown, 
Thou canst never be alone ; 
Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
Thou art gathered in a cloud ; 
And forever shalt thou dwell 
In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou see'st me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
And Avhen in that secret dread 
Thou hast turned around thy head ; 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot. 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice; 

And to thee shall night deny 

AH the quiet of her sky; 

And the day shall have a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 
An essence which hath strength to 

kill; 
From thy own heart I then did 

wring 
The black blood in its blackest 

spring; 
From thy own smile I snatched the 

snake, 
For there it coiled as in a brake ; 
From thy own lip I drew the charm 
^Vhich gave all these their chiefest 

harm; 
In proving every poison known, 
I found the strongest was thine own, 
33 



And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem 

near 
To thy wish, but as a fear; 
Lo! the spell now works around 

thee, 
And the clankless chain hath bound 

thee; 
O'er thy heart and brain together 
Hath the word been passed — now 

wither ! 

Byeon. 



MANFEED. 

The spirits I have raised abandon 

me — 
The spells which I have studied baf- 
fle me — 
The remedy I recked of tortured 

me; 
I lean no more on superhuman aid, 
It hath no power upon the past, and 

for 
The future, till the past be gulfed it 

darkness. 
It is not of my search. — My mothe»' 

earth ! 
And thou, fresh breaking day, and 

you, ye mountains. 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love 

ye. 

And thou, the bright eye of the 

universe. 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight, — thou shinest not on 

my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose ex- 
treme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink 

beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to 

shrubs 
In dizziness of distance; when a 

leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, 

would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's 

bed 
To rest forever, — wherefore do I 

pause ? 
I feel the impulse — yet I do not 

plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede; 



514 



PARNASSUS. 



And my brain reels — and yet my 
foot is firm : 

There is a power upon me wMcli 
withholds, 

And makes it my fatahty to live ; 

If it be life to wear within myself 

This barrenness of spirit, and to be 

My own soul's sepulchre, for I have 
ceased 

To justify my deeds unto myself, — 

The last infirmity of evil. Aye, 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving 
minister, 

[An eagle passes.] 

Whose happy flight is highest into 
heaven, 

Well mayst thou swoop so near me ; 
— I should be 

Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; 
thou art gone 

Where the eye cannot follow thee ; 
but thine 

Yet pierces downward, onward, or 
above, 

With a pervading vision. — Beauti- 
ful! 

How beautiful is all this visible 
world ! 

How glorious in its action and it- 
self— 

But we, who name ourselves its 
sovereigns, we. 

Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 

To sink or soar, witli our mixed es- 
sence make 

A conflict of its elements, and 
breathe 

The breath of degradation and of 
pride. 

Contending with low wants and lof- 
ty will 

Till our mortality predominates. 

And men are — what they name not 
to themselves. 

And trust not to each other. Hark ! 
the note, 

[The shepherd'' s pipe in the distance 
is heard, ] 

The natural music of the mountain 
reed, — 

For here the patriarchal days are not 

A pastoral fable, — pipes in the lib- 
eral air, 

Mixed with the sweet bells of the 
sauntering herd ; 



My soul would drink those echoes. — 
Oh that I were 

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 

A living voice, a breathing harmony, 

A bodiless enjoyment, — born and 
dying 

With the blest tone which made me ! 

Ye toppling crags of ice ! 

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws 
down 

In mountainous o'erwhelming, come 
and crush me ! 

I hear ye momently above, ben^th. 

Crash with a frequent conflict ; but 
ye pass. 

And only fall on things that still 
would live ; 

On the young flourishing forest, or 
the hut 

And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

The mists boil up around the gla- 
ciers; clouds 

Kise curling fast beneath me, white 
and sulphury. 

Like foam from the roused ocean of 
deep hell. 

Whose every wave breaks on a liv- 
ing shore. 

Heaped with the damned like peb- 
bles. — I am giddy. 

Byeon. 



THE APPARITION. 

I SEE a dusk and awful figure rise 
Like an infernal god from out the 

earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, "and his 

form 
Robed as with angry clouds; he 

stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him 

not. 

Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou 

on him ? 
Ah! he unveils his aspect; on his 

brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from 

his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of helL 
Avaunt ! 

Btbon. 



xn. 
ORACLES AND COUNSELS, 

GOOD COUNSEL. — SUPREME HOURS. 



" For words must sparks be of those fires they strike." — Lobd Bsookb. 



OEAOLES Al^D OOUE'SELS. 



Therk is a mystery in the soul of 
state, 

Which hath an operation more di- 
vine 

Than breatli or pen can give expres- 
sion to. 

Shakspeaee. 

There is a history in all men's 

lives, 
Figuring the nature of the times 

deceased ; 
The which observed a man may 

prophesy, 
With a near aim of the main chance 

of things 
As yet not come to life, which in 

their seeds, 
And weak beginnings, lie intreas- 

ured. 

SUAKSPEARE. 



OPPOKTUNITY. 

There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
AVliich, taken at the flood, leads on 

to fortune ; 
Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
Is bound in shallows, and in mis- 
eries. 
Shakspeare : Julhis Ccemr. 

Knowing the Heart of Man is set to 

be 
The centre of this world, about the 

which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll; where all the aspects of 

misery 
Predominate; whose strong effects 

are such 
As he must bear, being helpless to 

redress: 



And that, unless above himself he 

can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is 

man! 

Dakiel. 

The recluse Hermit ofttimes more 
doth know 

Of the world's inmost wheels, than 
worldlings can ; 

As man is of the world, the Heart of 
man 

Is an epitome of God's great book 

Of creatures, and men need no far- 
ther look. 

Donne. 

O HOW feeble is man's power, 

That, if good fortune fall. 
Cannot add another hour. 

Nor a lost hour recall ; 
But, come bad chance. 

And we join to it our strength, 
And we teach it art and length, 

Itself o'er us to advance. 

Donne. 

If men be worlds, there is in every 

one 
Something to answer in proportion 
All the world's riches: and in good 

men this 
Virtue our form's form, and our 

soul's soul is. 

Donne. 



BEWARE. 

Look not thou on beauty's charm- 
ing. 

Sit thou still when kings are arm- 
ing, 

517 



518 



PARNASSUS. 



Taste not when the wine-cup gUs- 

tens, 
Speak not when the people listens, 
Stop thine ear against the singer, 
From the red gold keep thy finger. 
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye. 
Easy live and quiet die. 

Scott. 



SATUKN". 

So Saturn, as he walked into the 

midst. 
Felt faint, and would have sunk 

among the rest. 
But that he met Enceladus's eye, 
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, 

at once 
Came like an inspiration. 

Keats. 



GOOD HEAKT. 

It's no in titles or in rank; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank. 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin' muckle mair; 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear 

To make us truly blest: 
If happiness hae not her seat 
And centre in the breast. 
We may be wise, or rich, or great. 
But never can be blest : 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay. 
That makes us right or 
wrang. 

BUBNS. 

FAITH. 

Better trust all, and be deceived, 

And weep that trust and that deceiv- 
ing. 

Than doubt one heart that if be- 
lieved 

Had blessed one's life with true 
believing. 

Oh ! in this mocking world too fast 
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our 

youth ; ^ 

Better be cheated to the last 
Than lose the blersed hope of truth. 
Mbs. Kemble. 



THE NOBLY BORN. 

Who counts himself as nobly born 

Is noble in despite of place. 
And honors are but brands to one 
Who wears them not with nature's • 
grace. 

The prince may sit with clown or 
churl, 

Nor feel himself disgraced thereby ; 
But he who has but small esteem 

Husbands that little carefully. 

Then, be thou peasant, be thou peer, 
Count it still more thou art thine 
own; 

Stand on a larger heraldry 
Than that of nation or of zone. 

What though not bid to knightly 
halls ? 
Those halls have missed a courtly 
guest ; 
That mansion is not privileged. 
Which is not open to the best. 

Give honor due when custom asks, 
Nor wrangle for this lesser claim ; 

It is not to be destitute. 
To have the thing without the 
name. 

Then dost thou come of gentle blood, 
Disgrace not thy good company ; 

If lowly born, so bear thyself 
That gentle blood may come of 
thee. 

Strive not with pain to scale the 
height 
Of some fair garden's petty wall, 
But climb the open mountain side, 
Whose summit rises over all. 

E. S. H, 



ULYSSES AND ACHILLES. 

Ulysses. — Time hath, my lord, a 
wallet at his back, 

Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 

A great-sized monster of ingrati- 
tudes : 

Those scraps are good deeds past; 
which are devoured 

As fast as they are made, forgot as 
soon 



ORACLES AND COUNSELS. 



519 



As done: Perseverance, dear my 
lord, 

Keeps honor bright : to have done is 
to hang 

Quite out of fashion, like a rusty 
mail 

In monumental mockery. Take the 
instant way ; 

For honor travels in a strait so nar- 
row, 

Wliere one but goes abreast: keep 
then the path ; 

For emulation hath a thousand sons, 

That one by one pursue : if you give 
way, 

Or hedge aside from the direct forth- 
right. 

Like to an entered tide they all rush 

by, 

And leave you hindmost ; — 

Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first 

rank, 
Lie there for pavement to the abject 

rear, 
O'er-run and trampled on: then 

what they do in present. 
Though less than yours in past, must 

o'ertop yours : 
For Time is like a fashionable host, 
That slightly shakes his parting 

giiest by tlie hand ; 
And with his anns outstretched, as 

he would fly, 
Grasps in the comer : Welcome ever 

smiles, 
And farewell goes out sighing. O, 

let not virtue seek 
Remuneration for the thing it was ; 
For beauty, wit, 
High birth, vigor of bone, desert in 

service. 
Love, friendship, charity,»are sub- 
jects all 
To envious and calumniating Time. 
One touch of nature makes the whole 

world kin, — 
That ail, witli one consent, praise 

new-born gawds. 
Though they are made and'Bioulded 

of things past ; 
And give to dust, that is a little gilt, 
More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. 
The present eye praises the present 

object : 
Then marvel not, thou great and 

complete man. 
That all the Greeks begin to worship 

Ajax ; 



Since things in motion sooner catch 

the eye, 
Than what not stirs. The cry went 

once on thee 
And still it might ; and yet it may 

again. 
If thou wouldst not entomb thyself 

alive, 
And case thy reputation in thy tent ; 
Whose glorious deeds, but in these 

fields of late. 
Made emulous missions 'mongst the 

gods tliemselves, 
And drave great Mars to faction. 

Shakspeaee, 



ANTONY AND THE SOOTH- 
SAYER. 

Antony. — Say to me, 
Wliose fortunes shall rise higher; 

Csesar's, or mine? 
Soothsayer. — Csesar's. 
Therefore, O Antony, stay not by 

his side : 
Thy daemon, that's thy spirit which 

keeps thee, is 
Noble, courageous, high, unmatcha- 

ble. 
Where Csesar's is not; but near him, 

thy angel 
Becomes a Fear, as being o'er- 

powered; therefore 
Make space enough between you. 
Ant. — Speak this no more. 
Soothsayer. — To none but thee ; 

no more, but when to thee. 
If thou dost play witli him at any 

game, 
Thou art sure to lose ; and of that 

natural luck, 
He beats thee 'gainst the odds ; thy 

lustre thickens, 
When he shines by : I say again, thy 

spirit 
Is all afraid to govern thee near him ; 
But, he away, 'tis noble. 
Ant. — Get thee gone : 
Say to Ventidius, I would speak with 

him: 

[Exit Soothsayer.] 
He shall to Parthia. — Be it art, or 

liap. 
He hath spoken true : the very dice 

obey him ; 
And, in our sports, my better cun- 
ning faints 



520 



PARNASSUS. 



Under his chance : if we draw lots, 

he speeds : 
His cocks do win the battles still of 

mine, 
When it is all to nought; and his 

quails ever 
Beat mine, inhooped at odds. 

Shakspeabe. 



MOTHER'S BLESSING. 

Be thou blest, Bertram ! and succeed 

thy father 
In manners, as in shape ! thy blood, 

and virtue. 
Contend for empire in thee ; and thy 

goodness 
Share with thy birthright! Love 

all ; trust a few ; 
Do wrong to none : be able for thine 

enemy 
Rather in power, than use ; and keep 

thy friend 
Under thy own life's key : be checked 

for silence 
But never taxed for speech. Wliat 

heaven more will, 
That thee may furnish, and my 

prayers jjluck down, 
Fall on thy head ! 

Shakspeajbe : 
AWs Well that Ends Well. 



TRUE DIGNITY. 

If thou be one whose heart the holy 
forms 

Of young imagination have kept 
pure. 

Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and 
know that pride, 

Howe'er disguised in its own majes- 
ty, 

Is littleness ; that he who feels con- 
tempt 

For any living thing hath faculties 

Which he has never used; that 
thought Avith him 

Is in its infancy. The man whose 
eye 

Is ever on himself doth look on one 

The least of Nature's works, one 
who might move 

The wise man to that scorn which 
wisdom holds 



Unlawful ever. O be wiser, Thou ! 
Instructed that true knowledge leads 

to love ; 
True dignity abides with him alone 
Who, in the silent hour of inward 

thought, 
Can still suspect, and still revere 

himself. 
In lowliness of heart. 

WOBDSWORTH. 



EACH AND ALL. 

Heaven doth with us as we with 
torches do, 

Not light them for themselves ; for if 
our virtues 

Did not go forth of us, 'twere all 
alike 

As if we had them not. Spirits are 
not finely touched 

But to fine issues : nor Nature never 
lends 

The smallest scruple of her excel- 
lence, 

But, like a thrifty goddess, she deter- 
mines 

Herself the glory of a creditor, 

Both thanks and use. 

Shakspeabe : 
Measure for Measure. 



The flighty purpose never is o'ertook 
Unless the deed go with it: from 

this moment. 
The very firstlings of my heart shall 

be 
The firstlings of my hand. 

. Shakspeabe: Macbeth. 



COURAGE. 

^ To be furious 

Is to be-fflghted out of fear; and, in 

that mood. 
The dove will peck the ostrich ; and 

I see still 
A diminiition in ovir captain's brain 
Restores his heart. When valor 

preys on reason. 
It eats the sword it fights with. 
Shakspeabe : 
Antony and Cleopatra, 



li 



ORACLES AND COUNSELS. 



521 



E)iobarbus. — Mine honesty and I 
begin to square 
The loyalty, well held to fools, does 

make 
Our faith mere folly; 

Yet, he that can endure 
To follow with allegiance a fallen 

lord. 
Does conquer him that did his mas- 
ter conquer, 
And earns a place in the story. 

Antony and Cleopatba, 



CLEOPATRA'S RESOLUTION. 

Iras. — Royal Egypt ! Empress, 
Cleopatra. — No more, but e'en a 

woman ; and commanded 
By such poor passion as the maid 

that milks. 
And does the meanest chores. It 

were for me 
To throw my sceptre at the injurious 

gods. 
To tell them that this world did equal 

theirs. 
Till they had stolen our jewel. 
Then is it sin 
To rush into the secret house of 

death 
Ere death dare come to us ? 
Our lamp is spent, it's out. Good 

sirs, take heart : 
We'll bury him: and then, what's 

brave, what's noble, 
Let's do it after the high Roman 

fashion, 
And make death proud to take us. 

Come away. 
The case of that huge Spirit now is 

cold. 

My desolation does begin to make 

A better life. 'Tis paltry to be Cis- 
sar; 

Not being Fortune, he's but For- 
tune's knave, 

A minister of her will. And it is 
great 

To do that thing that ends all other 
deeds. 

Which shackles accidents, and bolts 
up change; 

Which sleeps, and never palates more 
the dung. 

The beggar's nurse and Caesar's. 



FIRMNESS. 

We must not stint 
Our necessary actions in the fear 
To cope malicious censurers ; which 

ever, 
As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow 
That is new trimmed ; but benefit no 

farther 
Than vainly longing. What we oft 

do best, 
Bysick interpreters, once weakones, is 
Not ours, or not allowed; what 

worse, as oft, 
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up 
For our best act. If we shall stand 

still, 
In fear our motion will be mocked or 

carped at, 
We should take root here where we 

sit, or sit 
State statues only. 

Shakspeake. 

GUIDANCE. 

Rashly, — 
And praised be rashness for it. — Let 

us know 
Our indiscretion sometime serves us 

well. 
When our deep plots do pall: and 

that should teach us 
There's a Divinity that shapes our 

ends, 
Rough-hew them how we will. 

Shakspeaee: Hamlet. 



TRUST. 

If this great world of joy and pain 
Revolve in one sure track, 
If Freedom, set, will rise again, 
And Virtue flown, come back; 
Woe to the purblind crew who fill 
The heart with each day's care. 
Nor gain from Past or Future, skill 
To bear and to forbear. 

WOBDSWOBTH. 



HUMAN LIFE. 

OtJB revels now are ended : these our 

actors, 
As I foretold you, were all spirits, 

and 



622 



PABNASSUS. 



Are melted into air, into thin air ; 

And, like the baseless fabric of this 
vision, 

The cloud-capped towers, the gor- 
geous palaces, 

The solemn temples, the great globe 
itself, 

Yea, all which it inherits, shall dis- 
solve, 



And, like this insubstantial pageant 

faded. 
Leave not a rack behind : we are such 

stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our httle 

life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

Tempest, act. iv. so. 4. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



raDEX OF FIEST LmES. 



A barking sound the shepherd hears . 
Abou Ben Adhem, may his tribe increase ! 
A famous man is Robin Hood 
Again returned the scenes of youth . 

Ah Ben . 

Ah, County Guy! the hour is nigh . 

Ah, God, for a man with heart, head, hand 

Ah, sunflower! weary of time . 

A king lived long ago 

Alas for them ! tneir day is o'er . 

Alas ! what boots the long, laborious quest 

Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning . 

All the world's a stage 

All things that are 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights . 

Along a river-side, I Itnow not where 

A man prepared against all iUs to come 

A man there came, whence none could tell 

Amazed, confused, its fate unknown . 

A mist was driving down the British Cliannel 

An ancient story I'll tell you anon . . 

And also, beau sire, of other things . 

And here the hermit sat and told his beads 

And I shall sleep, and on thy side . 

And passing here through evening dew . 

And sooth to say, yon vocal grove 

And whither would you lead me? 

An empty sky, a world of heather 

Appeared the princess with that merry child 

Art is long, and time is fleeting . 

A shadie grove not far away they spied . 

As heaven and earth are fairer 

As I in hoary winter's night . . 

As I sit at my desk by the window 

As I stood by yon roofless tower 

As it befell 

As it fell upon a day 

Ask ye me why I send you here? . 

A slumber did my spirit seal 

As Memnon's marble harp, renowned of old 

As ships becalmed at eve .... 

As unto blowing roses summer dews . 

As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp 

A sweet, attractive kind of grace . 

A sweet disorder in the dress 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay . 

At summer eve, when Heaven's aerial bow 

At the approach of extreme peril . 

At the King's gate the subtle noon . 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints whose 

A voice by the cedar-tree .... 

Awake, awake, my lyre .... 

Away, ye gay landscapes .... 

h weaiy tot ie tbiue, fair maid . . 



(A 



Wordsworth 

Leigh Hunt 

Wordsworth 

Scott . 

Heerick . 

Scott . 

Tennyson 

W. Blake . 

Browning 

Charles Sprague 

Wordsworth 

Scott . 

Shakspeare . 

Shakspeare 

Coleridge 

Lowell 

Herrick . 

W. Allingham . 

Swift 

Longfellow 

Percy's Reliques 

Chaucer 

Channxng 

Bryant 

William Barnes 

Wordsworth 

Scott . 

Jean Ingelow 

Henry Taylor . 

Longfellow 

Spenser 

Keats 

Robert Southwell 

G. B. Bartlett 

Burns . 

Wordsworth 

R. Barnefield . 

Herrick . 

Wordsworth . 

Akenside 

A. H. Clough . 

D. A. Wasson 

H. H. Brownell 

Matthew Roydon 

Herrick 

Longfellow . 

Campbell . 

Coleridge (Trans 

H. H. . 



bones Milton . 

Tennyson . 
. Cowley . 

Byron . 
. Scott 

625 



Faok 

326 

158 

274 

122 

270 

442 

198 

29 

282 

225 

221 

363 

151 

40 

73 

237 

198 

158 

502 

224 

352 

96 

7 

25 

75 

34 

349 

80 

70 

149 

30 

143 

191 

505 

219 

17 

35 

32 

471 

99 

82 

83 

502 

268 

87 

239 

46 

195 

202 

195 

72 

129 

26 

448 



526 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



A wet sheet and a flowing sea . 

Ay, but to die, and go, we know not where 

Ay ! tear her tattered ensign down . 

Bankrupt, our pockets inside out 

Beautiful ! sir, you may say so 

Beaver roars hoai-se with melting snows . 

Before the starry threshold of Jove's court 

Before thy stem, smooth seas were curled 

Behold a silly tender babe . . . , 

Being asked by an intimate party 

Beneath an Indian palm, a girl 

Below the bottom of the great abyss . 

Be thou blest, Bertram ! and succeed thy father 

Better trust all, and be deceived 

Between the dark and the daylight 

Between the acting of a dreadful thing 

Birdie, birdie, will you, pet . 

Blackened and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind ... 

Blue crystal vault and elemental fires 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen 

Brave Schill, by death delivered 

Break, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud 

Breathe, trumpets, breathe slow notes . 

Bright flag at yonder tapering mast 

Bury the Great Duke 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride . 

But all our praises, why should lords engross , 

But are ye sure the news is true? 

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-Ben . 

But for ye speken of such gentilesse . 

But I wol turn againe to Ariadne 

But souls that of his own good life partake 

By broad Potomac's sUent shore 

By Nebo's lonely mountain .... 

Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin 

CaU me no more 

Oahn and still light on yon great plain 
Captain or Colonelj or Knight in arms . 
Child Dyring has ridden him up under 6e 
Clothed with state, and girt with might 
Come away, come away, death . 
Come into the garden, Maud . 
Come on, come on, and where you go 
Come on, sir, here's the place : stand still 
Come pitie us, all ye who see 

Come seeling night 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged 
Come thou who art the wine and wit . 
Come to Licoo ! the sun is riding 
Come to the river's reedy shore 
Comrades, leave me here a little 
Consolers of the solitary hours 



Dark fell the night, the watch was set 

Dear lady, I a little fear . 

Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die . 

Dear my friend and fellow-student 

Deep in the waves is a coral grove 

Dinas Emlinn, lament, for the moment is nigh 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 

Each care-worn face is but a book 
Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky 
Ever a current of sadness deep 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime . 

Faire DafEodills, we weep to see . 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree . 

Fare thee well ! and if forever 

Farewell, ye lofty spires 

Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter 



A. CUimrNGHAM 

Shakspeabe . 
O. W. Holmes . 

Holmes 

Bbet Hakte . 

Lowell 

Milton . 

Punch . 

Robert Southwell 

Bbet Haete 

MiLNES . 
RiCHABD CRASHAW 

Shakspeabe 
Mbs. Kemble 
Longfellow . 
Shakspeabe 
W. Allingham 
Beet Habte 
Shakspeabe . 
Sib W. Jones (Trans. 
James Hogg . 
wobdswobth . 
Ben Jonson . 
Geobge Lunt 
Willis . 
Tennyson . 
Hamilton 
Pope . 

MiCKLE . 

Bubns . 

Chauceb . 

Chaucee 

Heney Moee 

Anonymous 

Mbs. C. F. Alexandee 



Shakspeabe 

Hebrick . 

Tennyson . 

Milton . 

Scott . 

SiE Philip Sidney 

Shakspeabe 

Tennyson 

Ben Jonson 

Shakspeabe . 

Hebbick 

Shakspeabe . 

S. Feeguson 

Hebbick . 

Anonymous 

F. B. Sanboen 

Tennyson . 

S. G. W. . 



J. Steeling 

Daniel Webstee 

Tennyson . 

Mbs. Beowning 

J. G. Peecival . 

Scott 

Ben Jonson 



Jones Veey . 
woedswoeth 
Mbs. Hemans 

T. Moobe . 

Hebbick . 

Heebick 

Byeon 

E. B. Emeeson 

T. Moobe 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



627 



Far have I clambered in my mind 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun 

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed .... 

Friends, Konians, Counti-ynien, lend me your ears 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony 

From you have I been absent in the spring 

Full fathom five thy father lies 

Full knee-deep lies'the winter snow . 

Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried 

Full many a glorious morning have 1 seen 

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming mom 
Give me a spirit that on life's rough sea . 
Give me my cup, but from the Thespian well 
Give me my scallop's shell of quiet . 
Give place, ye ladies, and begone . 
God moves in a mysterious way . 
God of science and of light .... 
Goe, happy rose, and interwove 
Goldilocks sat on the grass .... 

Go, lovely rose 

Go, soul, the body's. guest .... 
Grandmother's niother ; her age I guess . 
Great God, greater than greatest . 
Great Ocean ! strongest of Creation's sons 
Gude Lord Graeme is to Carlisle gane . 

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances 
Happy, happier far than thou . 
Happy those early days when I . . . 
Hark," hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings 

Hark, how I'll bribe you 

Hath this world without me wrought? 

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay? 

Hearken in your ear 

He clasps the crag with hookM hands 

He is gone — is dust 

He is gone on the mountains .... 

He leaves the earth, and says enough 
Hence, all you vain delights ! ... 

Hence, loathM melancholy ! . . . 
Hence, vain deluding joys ! . . . . 

Here is the place ; right over the hill 

Here let us live, and spend away our lives 

Here might 1 pause and bend in reverence 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee 

Her fingers shame the ivory keys 

Her finger was so small the ring . 

Her house is all of echo made . 

He's a rare man ...... 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn . 
He that loves a rosy cheek .... 

He works in rings, in magic rings of chance 

Hope smiled when your nativity was cast 

How changed is here each place man makes or tills ! 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean ! 

How happy is he born and taught 

How many a time have I 

How many thousand of my poorest subjects 
How near to good is what is fair ! . . • 
How oft when thou my music, music play'st 
How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai ! 
How seldom, friends, a good great man inherits 
How sleep the brave who sink to rest 
How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth . 
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
How they go by, those strange and dreamlike men ! 
How vainly men themselves amaze ! . . . . 
How young and fresh am 1 to-night ! 



I am holy while I stand .... 
I called on dreams and visions to disclose 
I cam« to a laund of white and green . 



Henry More . 
Shakspeare 
Wordsworth 
Shakspeare 
Dryden . 
Shakspeare 
Shakspeare . 
Tennyson . 
Spenser . 
Shakspeare 

Herrick . 
G. Chapman 
Ben Jonson . 
Sir W. RA.LEIGH. 
Heywood 

COWPER 

Chaucer. 

Herrick 

Jean Ingelow 

Waller 

Sir W. Raleigh 

O. W. Holmes . 

Young 

POLLOK 

Scott 

Scott 

Mrs. Hemans . 

Vaughan 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare . 

F. H. Hedge 

O. W. Holmes 

Lowell 

Tennyson 

Coleridge (Trans.; 

Scott 

S. G. W. 

Beaumont and 

Milton . 

Milton . 

Whittier 

Chajtntng . 

Wordsworth 

Herrick 

Whittier 

Sir John Suckling 

Ben Jonson . 

Jean Lngelow 

Burns 

T. Carew . 

J. J. G. Wilkinson 

Wordsworth 

Matthew Arnold 

Herbert 

Wotton . 

Byron . 

Shakspeare . 

Ben Jonson 

Shakspeare . 

Byron . 

Coleridge 

Collins 

Milton . 

Sa,\KSPEARE 

E. S. H . 
Marvell 
Ben Jonson 

Herrick 

Wordsworth 

Chaucer 



Fletcher 



52"g 



NDEX OP FIRST LDSTES. 



I challenge not the oracle 

I climbed the dark brov^ of the mighty Helvellyn . 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song 

If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep . 

If men be woi-lds, there is in evei-y one 

If this gi-eat world of joy and pain .... 

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms 

If thou wert by my side, my love .... 

If with light head erect I sing .... 

I got me flowers to strew thy way .... 

I have done one braver thing 

I have learned to look on nature .... 

I have ships that went to sea 

I have, thou gallant Trojan 

I have woven shrouds of air 

1 hear thy solemn anthem fall 

I know a little garden close 

I made a footing in the wall 

I made a posie while the day ran by . 

I mind it weel, in early date 

I'm sitting alone by the lire 

I must go furnish up 

Inland, within a hollow vale I stood 

In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest , 

In the frosty season, when the sun 

In the golden reign of Charlemagne the king . 

In the hour of my distress 

In the summer even 

In this world, the isle of dreams .... 
In vain the common theme my tongue would shun 
In what torn ship soever I embark 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

In yonder grave a Druid lies 

I see a dusk and awiul figure rise .... 
I see before me the gladiator lie . 

I see men's judgments are 

I shall lack voice : the deeds of Coriolanus . 
I sift the snow on the mountains below . 
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers 
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he . 

Is there for honest poverty 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child? . 
It don't seem hardly right, John .... 

It follows now you are to prove 

It happed that I came on a day .... 

I think not on my father 

It is not to be thought of that the flood 

It little profits that an idle king .... 

lt'8 narrow, narrow make your bed 

It's no in titles or in rank 

It was fifty years ago 

It was the season, when through aU the land . 

It was the time when lilies blow 

It was the winter wild 

It was thy fear, or else some transient wind 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

I watched her face, suspecting germs .... 

I vpish I were where Helen lies 

I would that thou might always be ... . 
I've taught me other tongues 

John Anderson, my jo, John 

John Brown in Kansas settled like a steadfast . 
Just for a handful of silver he left us . . . 
Just now I've ta'en a fit of rhyme .... 

Kings, queens, lords, ladies, knights, and damsels 

great 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 

King Ferdinand alone did stand one day upon the hill 



Sidney H. Moese 
Scott . 
Collins . 
Shakspeare 
Donne 

Wordsworth . 
Wordsworth 
R. Heber . 
Thoreau . 
Herbert 
Donne 

Wordsworth . 
R. B. Coffin . 
Shakspeare 
Channing 
Channing . 
William Morris 
Byron . 
Herbert . 
Burns . 
Bret Harte . 
Arthur Boar . 
Wordsworth . 
Tennyson . 
Wordsworth 
tockerman 
Herrick . 
Harriet Prescott 1 
Herrick . 
O. W. Holmes 
Donne 
Coleridge . 
Collins . 
Byron . 
Byron 
Shakspeare 
Shakspeare . 
Shelley 
Herrick . 
Browning . 

BCRNS 

Byron . 

Lowell . 

Ben Jonson 

Chaucer 

Shakspeare 

Wordsworth 

Tennyson . 

Scott 

Burns . 

Longfellow . 

Longfellow 

Tennyson 

Milton . 

W. Congreve 

Wordsworth 

Patmore 

Scott . 

N. P. Willis . 

Byron . 



Spoffobd 



Burns 
Stedman 
Browning 
Burns . 



Spenser . 
Daniel 
Lockhart's Spanish 

LADS 



Lady Clara Vei-e De Vere . 

Lady, there is a hop© that all men have 



Tennyson 
Channing 



Bal- 



82 
326 

43 
122 
517 
521 
520 

53 

94 
192 
154 

29 
122 
265 

27 

92 
442 
283 
151 
220 
495 

36 
144 

92 

22 
357 
186 
448 
123 
232 
180 
126 
462 
514 
283 
511 
265 

46 
3 
355 
147 
276 
235 
433 

60 

62 
223 
101 
384 
518 
280 

11 
381 
187 
133 

33 

59 
411 

57 
277 

438 
227 
224 



293 
517 



300 



365 
163 



INDEX OF PIEST LINES. 



529 



Lately, alas ! I knew a gentle boy 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 
Less worthy of applause, though more admired 
Ijet nie not to the marriage of true minds 

Let the bird of loudest lay 

Ijife and thought have gone away . 
Life, I know not what tliou art .... 
Life may be given in many ways . . . 
Light-winged smoke ! Icarian bird 

Like a poet hidden 

J.,ike as the waves make towards the pebbled shore 
Like to the clear in highest sphere . 

Litlie and listen, gentlemen 

] Jttle I ask. my wants are few 

Jjittle was King Laurin 

Ix)cliiel, Ijochiel, beware of the day 

" Lo," quoth he, " Cast up thine eye " 

Lo ! on his far resounding path 

Look not thou on beauty's charming 

Lord, when I quit this earthly stage . 

Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round 

Loud is the vale, the voice is up . 

Love is a sickness full of woes .... 

Low-anchored cloud 

Lo, when the Lord made North and South 
Lo, where she comes along with portly pace 



Macbeth is ripe for shaking . . . , 

Man, thee behooveth oft to have this in mind 

Man wants but little here below 

Men have done brave deeds . 

Merciful Heaven ! .... 

Many it is in the good gjreen wood 

Methought I heard a voice cry, " Sleep no more 

Methinks it is good to be here 

Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour 

MiTie eyes have seen the glory 

Mine honesty and I begin to square . 

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors 

Motions and means, on land and sea at war 

Mournfully, sing mournfully . 

Mouni, hills and groves of Attica 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold 

My dear and only love, I pray . 

My gentle Puck, come hither 

My God, I heard this day . 

My liege, 1 did deny no prisoners . 

My lord, you told me you would tell the rest 

My mind to me a kingdom is . 

My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun 

My mother, when 1 learned that thou wast dead 

Mysterious night ! when our tirst parent knew 

Naked on parents' knees, a new-bom child . 

Nature is made better by no mean . 

Nay, you wron^ her, my friend 

Needy knife-gnnder, whither are you going? 

Night is fair Virtue's immemorial friend . 

No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral stoops 

No ! is my answer from this cold bleak ridge 

No man is the lord of any thing . 

No more, no more. Oh ! never more on me . 

Northward he tumeth through a little door 

No screw, no piercer can 

No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome 
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note . 
Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul 
Nought loves another as itself 
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh 
Now deeper roll the maddening drums 
Now baud your tongue .... 
Now is the time for mirth .... 
Now is the winter of our discontent . 
Now Nature hangs her mantle green . 
Now overhead a rainbow bursting through 



Thoreau . 
Keats . 

COWPER 

Shakspeare 
Shakspeake . 
Tennyson 
Mrs. Baubauld 
Lowell . 
Thoreau . 
Shelley 
Shakspeare . 
Lodge . 
Percy's Reliqdes 
O. W. Holmes 
Warton . 
Campbell 
Chaocer . 
G. Mellen . 
Scott 
Watts . 
Herbert . 
wordswokth 
Davies . 
Thoreau 
Patmore 
Spenser 

Shakspeake 

Anonymous . 

J. Q. Adams 

E. H. . 

Shakspeare 

Scott . 

Shakspeare 

H. Knowles 

Wordsworth 

Mrs. Howe . 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare 

Wordsworth 

Mrs. Hemaus 

Wordsworth 

Keats . 

Montrose 

Shakspeare 

Herbert . 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare 

Byrd 

Shakspeare 

COWPER 

J. Blanco White 



Sir W. Jones (Trans.) 

Shakspeare . 

JuLLA C. R, Dorr 

Canning . 

YotraG . 

Channing 

Lucy Labcom 

Shakspeare 

Byron . 

Keats 

Herrick 

Patmore 

Wolfe . 

Shakspeare 

W. Blake 

Burns 

G. Mellen 

Scott 

Herrick 

Shakspeare 

Burns . 

Byron 



530 



INDEX OF FIEST LINES. 



Now ponder well, you parents dear 
Now wol I turn unto my tale agen . 

O Brignall Banks are wild and fair 

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison ! . . , . 

O divine star of heaven 

O draw me. Father, after thee .... 

O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea 

O'er western tides the fair spring day . 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

Of all the rides since the birth of time 

Of Nelson and the North 

O for my sake do you with fortune chide . 
Often trifling with a privilege .... 

Oft in the stilly night 

Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope 

Oft when returning with her loaded bill 

O heavens, if you do love old men . 

O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale? . 

Oh, go not yet, my love 

Oh, have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde . 
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 
Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best 
O how canst thou renounce the boundless store 

O how feeble is man's power 

Oh, weel may the boatie row 

O I have passed a miserable night 

O joy hast thou a face 

O keeper of the sacred key .... 
O listen, listen, ladies gay .... 

Old wine to drink 

O Lord, in me there lieth nought 

O messenger, art thou the king, or I? . 

O my luve's like a red, red rose . 

Once git a smell o' musk into a draw . 

Once more, Cesario ..... 

Once we built our fortress where you see . 

On the mountain peak 

O never rudely will I blame his faith . 
One day, nigh weai-y of the irksome way 
On Linden, when the sun was low 

O Proserpina 

Or if the soul of proper kind .... 

Orpheus with his lute made trees 

O Sacred Providence, who from end to end 

O than the fairest day thrice fairer night 

Oh that last day in Lucknow fort . 

O that we now had here .... 

O the days are gone when beauty bright 

O then what soul was his, when, on the tops 

O then I see Queen Mab hath been with you 

O thou goddess .... 

O thou who in the heavens dost dwell . 

O thou that swing'st upon the waving ear 

O ! 'tis wondrous much 

Our boat to the waves go free 

Our brethren of New England use 

Our bugles sang truce ; for the night cloud had 

Our revels now are ended .... 

Out upon it : I have loved .... 

Out upon time, who will leave no more 

O waly, waly, my eay goss-hawk 

O waly, waly, up the bank .... 

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel . 

O young Lochinvar is come out of the West 

Passion o' me ! cried Sir Richard Tyrone . 

Peace to all such 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu .... 
Pleased we remember our august abodes 
Praise to God, immortal praise . 

Queen Bouduca, I do not grieve your fortune 



Anonymous 
Chaucer 



Scott . 

Milton . 

Motherwell 

Beaumont and 

John Wesley 

Byron . 

W. Allingham 

Burns . 

Whittier 

Campbell . 

Shakspeare . 

Wordsworth 

T. Moore 

Wordsworth 

Thomson . 

Shakspeare 

Campbell 

Tennyson . 

Scott 

Shakspeajeie 

Allingham . 

Beattie 

Donne 

Anonymous 

Shakspeare 

H. H. . 

F. WiLLSON 

Scott . 

Messenger 

Sidney . 

H. H . 

Burns . 

Lowell . 

Shakspeare 

Channing 

Channing 

Coleridge 

Spenser 

Campbell 

Shakspeare 

Chaucer . 

Shakspeare 

Herbert . 

William Drummond 

Robert Lowell . 

Shakspeare 

T. Moore 

Wordsworth 

Shakspeare . 

Shakspeare 

Burns 

Lovelace . 

Chapman 

Channing 
. Butler . 
lowered Campbell . 
. Shakspeare . 

Sir John Suckling 

Byron 

Anonymous . 

Anonymous . 

Burns . 

Scott 



Fletcher 



G. W. Thornburt 
Pope. 
Scott . 
Landok . 
Mrs. Barbauld . 



Beaumont and Fletcher 



337 
16 



213 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



631 



Eabia, sick upon her bed J. F. Clarke (Trans.) 

Rambling along the niiirshes . ... Chauning . 

Itashly, — And praised be rashness for it . . . Shakspearb 

Reason thus with life . . .... Shakspeare 

Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps . . Byrox 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky .... Tennyson . 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down Lockhart 

Round my own pretty rose T. H. Bayly 

Royal Egj'pt ! Empress Shakspeare 

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade . . O. W. Holmes 

Ruin seize thee, rutUess king Gray 

Rumble thy belly full! spit tire! spout rain! . . Shakspeare 

Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears William Drummond 

Say to me, whose fortunes shall rise higher . . Shakspeare 

Say, what is Honor? Wordsworth 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled .... Burns .... 

See how the Orient dew Marvell . 

See living vales by living waters blest . . . Celarles Sprague 

See the chariot at hand here of love .... Ben Jonson . 

See yonder souls set far within the shade . . Ben Jonson 

Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it . . . Shakspeare . 

Shake olt your heavy trance Beaumont and Fletcher 

Shall I, wastbig in despair? Wither .... 

She, of whose soul, if we may say, 'twas gold • . Donne . 

She's gane to dwell in heaven, my lassie . . .A.. Cunningham 

She walks in beauty, like the night .... Byron . 

Shine kindly forth, September sun , . . . F. B. Sanborn 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot .... Burns . 

Silence augmenteth grief — writing encreaseth rage . '^ brooke?^^'"^^ (Lord 

Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water . . Moore 

Since I am coming to that holy room .... Donne . 

Since our country our God — Oh, my sire! . . Byron 

Since the sun Wordsworth 

Sing, and let your song be new Sir Philip Sidney 

Sing, O Goddess, the wrath, the ontamable dander 

of Keitt Punch . 

Sitting in my window Beaumont and Fletcher 

Sleep 18 like death, and after sleep .... Allingham 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves .... Henry Timrod 

Slow, slow fresh "fount, keep time .... Ben Jonson 

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key . . . Shakspeare . 

So every spirit as it is most pure .... Spenser 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn . . . Whittier 

Soft you ; a word or two before you go . . . Shakspeare 

So Saturn, as he walked into the midst . . . Keats .... 

So, when their feet were planted on the plain . Tennyson . 

Spring all the giaces of the age Ben Jonson . 

St. Mark's hushed abbey heard Miss S. H. Palfrey . 

Star of the flowers and flower of the stars . . . J. J. G. Wilkinson 

Stem daughter of the voice of God .... Wordsworth 

Still to be neat, still to be drest Ben Jonson . 

Svend Vonved binds his sword to his side . . . George Borrow (Trans.) 

Sweep ho! Sweep ho! E. S. H. . . . 

Sweet country life, to such unknown . . . Herrick 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright .... Herbert .... 

Sweet echo, sweetest nymph that uv'st unseen . Milton .... 

Sweetness, truth, and every grace .... Waller .... 

Sweet peace, where dost thou dwell .... Herbert 

Sweet scented flower, who art wont to bloom . . Kirke White 

Take along with thee Ben Jonson 

Take, O tiuie those lips away Shakspeare . 

Teach me, my God and King Herbert 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind Lovelace 

Tell me where is fancy bred Shakspeare 

Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue . . . Herrick .... 

Thanks for the lessons of this spot .... Wordsworth 

That instrument ne'er heard Drayton 

That regal soul 1 reverence in whose eyes . . D. A. Wasson 

That wiiich her slender waist confined . . E. Waller 

The Abbot on the threshold stood .... ScOTT .... 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold . Byron .... 

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne . Shakspeare 



532 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



The birds against the April wind 

The breaking waves dashed high . 

The bush that has most briars and bitter fruit 

The clouds are flying, the woods are sighing 

The convent-bells are ringing 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day . 

The daughter of a king, how should I know? 

The despot's heel is on thy shore . 

The destiny, minister general . 

The earth goes on, the earth glittering in gold 

The faery beam upon you .... 

The feathered songster Chanticleer 

The flighty purpose never is o'ertook 

The garlands wither on your brow 

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 

The gods be your terror 



life 



The harp that once through Tara's halls . 

The house of Chivalry decayed 

The king called his best archers 

The king is full of grace and fair regard 

The king is kind ; and well we know 

The king sits in Dunfermline town 

The king was on his throne 

The Lord descended from above . 

The melancholy days are come 

The merry world did on a day 

The minstrels played their Christmas tune 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night 

The Moorish king rides up and down 

The muse doth tell me where to borrow 

The muse, nae poet ever fand her 

The night is come like to the day . 

The night is made for cooling shade . 

The night is past and shines the sun 

The old man said, " Take thou this shield, my 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower 

The owl is abroad, the bat, the toad 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hiU . 

There are points from which we can command 

There came to Cameliard .... 

The recluse hermit ofttimes more doth know 

There in the fane a beauteous creature stands 

There is a history in all men's lives . 

There is a mystery in the soul of state 

There is an island on a river lying 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods . 

There is a stream, I name not its name . 

There is a tide in the affairs of men 

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale 

There like a rich and golden pyramid . 

"There is no God," the wicked saith 

There's a flag hangs over my threshold 

There where death's brief pang was quickest 

There was a boy ; ye knew him well, ye cUlfs 

There was a king that much might . 

There was a laughing devil in his sneer 

There was a sound of revelry by night 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream . 

Ther is right at the West side of ItaDle . 

The sea rolls vaguely, and the stars are dumb 

The shadow on the dial's face . 

The sky is changed ; and such a change 

The snows arise ; and foul and fierce 

The spacious firmament on high . 

The spirits I have raised abandon me 

The splendor falls on castle walls . 

The stars above will make thee known . 

The tent-lights glimmer on the land . 

The unearthly voices ceased 

The wanton troopers riding by 

The weather leech of the topsail shivers . 

The Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn . 

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew 



Whittier 

Mrs. Hemans . 

Jones Very . 

Anonymous (Trans.) 

Byron 

Gray .... 

H. H . 

J. R. Randall . 

Chaucer . 

Anonymous . 

Ben Jonson . 

T. Chatterton . 

Shakspeare . 

James Shirley . 

Shakspeare . 

Goethe: Trans. by Pj 

INGHAM . 

Moore . 

Ben Jonson 

Anonymous . 

Shakspeare 

Shakspeare . 

Anonymous 

Byron 

Sternhold . 

Bryant . 

Herbert . 

Wordsworth 

Byron .... 

Byron 

George Wither 

Burns 

Sir T. Browne . 

J. T. Trowbridge 

Byron .... 

S.G. W . . . 

Jean Ingelow . 

Ben Jonson . 

Whittier . 

P. Bailey 

Tennyson . 

Donne 

Prof. Wilson (Trans. 

Shakspeare . 

Shakspeare 

J. W. Morris . 

Byron .... 

A. H. Clough . 

Shakspeare 

Wordsworth 

Ben Jonson 

Clough . 

Mrs. Howe . 

Byron 

Wordsworth . 

GOWER . 

Byron .... 

Byron . 

Wordsworth . 

Chaucer 

Allingham 

J. Montgomery . 

Byron .... 

Thomson 

Addison 

Byron 

Tennyson . 

Cowley . 

Whittier . 

Scott 

Marvell . 

W. Mitchell . 

Scott .... 

George MaoDonald 


aOTH- 

► * . ' 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



533 



Tlio wintry west extends his blast .... BURNS 

Tlie woods decay, the woods decay and fall . . . Tennyson . 

Tliey made her a grave too cold and damp . . T. Mooke 

They told me I was heir: I turned in haste . . H. H. . 

Thoy that never had the use Edmund Waller 

Think we King Hariy strong Shakspeare 

This ae night, tliis ae night Southwell . 

This army led by a delicate and tender prince . . Shakspeare 

This bright wood-fire E. S. H . . 

This castle hath a pleasant seat ; the air . . . Shakspeare 

This knight a doughter hadde by his wif . . . Chaucer . 

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire . . . Ben Jonson 

Thou art not gone, being gone Donne 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew . . . Bryant 

Though the day of my destiny's over . . . Byron 

Thou hast learned the woes of all the world . . C. S. T. . 

Thou hast sworn by thy Gtod, my Jeannie . . A. Cunningham 

Thou hidden love of God ! whose height . , . Wesley (Trans.) 

Thou that art our qiieen again Leigh Hunt . 

Thou that hast a daughter W. Allingham 

Thou that hast given so much to me .... Herbert . 

Thou wast not bom for death, immortal bird ! . . Keats . 

Thou whose sweet youth and early hopes enhance . Herbert 

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed . . H. H. Brownell 

Three poets in three distairt ages born . . . Dryden . 

Three score o' nobles rade up the king's ha' . . Smith's Scottish Minstrel 

Three years she grew in sun and shower . . . Wordsworth 

Thy braes were bonny, yarrow stream . . . . T. Logan 

Thy voice is heard through rolling drums . . Tennyson 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright W.Blake . 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back . • . Shakspeare . 

Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep . . . Young • 

'Tis madness to resist or blame Marvell , 

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more . . Beattie 

'Tis not every day that I Herrick . 

'Tis not in battles that from youth we train . . Wordsworth 

'Tis truth, although this truth's a star . . . Patmore . 

To be furious Shakspeare 

To beguile the time Shakspeare . 

To be no more — sad cure Milton 

To be or not to be, that is the question . . . Shakspeare . 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Collins 

To heroism and holiness Patmore . 

Toiling in the naked fields John Clare 

To keep the lamp alive Cowper . 

To me men are for what they are Milnes 

Toll for the brave Cowper . 

To the belfry one by one, went the ringers from the sun Mrs. Browning 

To the Lord^ of Convention Scott 

True bard and simple, — as the race .... Moore. 

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky .... Campbell 

'Twas All-Souls' eve, and Surrey's heart beat high . Scott . 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won . . . Dryden . 

Two went to pray — oh! rather say . . . . Eichard CrashAW 

Two voices are there ; one is of the sea . . . Wordsworth 

Underneath this sable hearse Ben Jonson 

Underneath this stone doth lye Ben Jonson . 

Under the greenwood tree Shakspeare 

Upon a rock yet uncreate Anonymous . 

Uvedale, thou piece of the first times. .... Ben Jonson 

Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old . Milton . 

Vex not thou the poet's mind Tennyson . 

Wail for Da;dalus, all that is fairest .... Sterling . 

Walking thus towards a pleasant grove . . . Lord Herbert 

AVarriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or sword . Byron 

Wee, modest, crimsqj, tipped flower .... Burns . 

Wee, sleekit, cow'ring, timorous beastie . . . Burns 

Well, honor is the subject of my story . . . . Shakspeare 

We must not stint Shakspeare . 

Westward tlie course of empire takes its way . . Berkeley . 

What is good for a bootless ben^ .... Wordsworth 

What needs my Shakspeare for hia honored bones . Milton . 



534 



INDEX OF FIRST LESTES. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure . 
Whence is it that the air so sudden clears 
When Chapman billies leave the street . 
When coldness wraps this suffering clay 
When daisies pied and violets blue . 
Whene'er a noble deed is vprought 
When first thou didst entice to thee my heart 
When Flora \vith her fragrant flowers . 
When God at first made man ... 
When I a verse shall make .... 
When I consider how my light is spent . 
Wlien I do count the clock that tells the time 
When I love as some have told . 
When Love with unconflnfed wings 
When Music, heavenly maid, was young . 
When spring to woods and wastes around . 
Wlien the British warrior queen 
When the moon is on the wave 
When the radiant mom of creation broke 
When we in our viciousness grow hard 
When whispering strains with creeping wind 
When wise Minerva still was young 
When with the virgin morning thou dost rise 
Where dost thou careless lie . 
Where have ye been, ye ill woman? . 
Where is Timarchus gone ? . . . . 
Where like a pillow on a bed 
Where the bee sucks, there suck I 
Where the remote Bermudas ride 

Which I wish to remark 

While from the purpling east departs 
While malice, Pope, denies thy page . 
Wliither midst falling dew .... 
Wlio counts himself as nobly born 
Who can divine what impulses from God 
Wlio is the happy warrior .... 
Who is the honest man .... 
Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way 

Whoso him bethof t 

Why f earest thou the outward foe 
Willie stands in his stable door . 
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day . 
Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk . 

Within my ears resounds that ancient song 

Within the mind strong fancies work 

With joys unknown, with sadness unconfessed 

With naked foot and sackcloth vest . 

With sacrifice before the rising morn . 

Woof of the fen, ethereal gauze 

Would wisdom for herself be wooed . 

Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers . 

Ye mariners of England .... 

Ye scattered birds that faintly sing 

Yes, I answered you last night . 

Ye sigh not when the sun his course fulfilled 

Yet a few days, and thee .... 

Yet do I fear thy nature 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 
You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier 
You meaner beauties of the night . 
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought m 

bride 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep 

Your grace shall pardon me .... 

You that can look through Heaven, and tell the stars 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 



for his 



Burns 
Ben Jonson 
Burns 
Byron . 
Shakspeare 
Longfellow 
Herbert 
Anonymous 
Herbert 
Herrick 
Milton . 
Shakspeare 
Herrick . 
Lovelace . 
Collins . 
Bryant 

COWPER . 

Byron . 

Bryant . 

Shakspeare 

WiLLi-^M Strode 

Lowell 

Herrick . 

Ben Jonson 

Hogg 

From Simonides 

Donne 

Shakspeare 

Marvell 

Bret Harte 

Wordsworth 

David Lewis 

Bryant . 

E. S. H. . 
Wordsworth 
Wordsworth 
Herbert 
Moore . 
Anonymous 
Anonymous 
BucHAN's Ballads 
Shakspeare 
Jean Ingelow 
Goethe: Trans 

INGHAM 

Wordsworth 

F. B. Sanborn 
Scott . 
Wordsworth 
Thoreau . 
Patmore 

Burns 
Gray . 
Campbell 
Burns . 
Mrs. Browning 
Bryant 
Bryant . 
Shakspeare 
Milton . 
Tom Taylor 

WOTTON . 



by 



Froth 



Lady Anne Lindsay 

Byron 

Shakspeare 

Beaumont and Fletcher 

Lowell . • 



24 



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378 
207 
155 

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